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expectodragons · 1 year

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Bitter Water || Chapter 1

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 12,200 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, alcohol consumption, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, dual POV, mentions of past character death, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The letter in her pocket had been a comforting weight during the flight across the Atlantic. Having received the invitation from the Deputy Headmistress herself during a short reprieve in the small encampment in the Andes Mountains.

She had been sat upon the stool inside her canvas tent that dreary morning, glossing over the notes from her Australian correspondent – occasionally comparing the details with her month-old letter from Natty. South America wasn’t where she needed to be from the looks of it.

A heavily creased map was pulled out and laid before her when a pleading hooting captured her attention.

That poor owl, how it ever managed to find her over such a great distance is still a mystery – as it sagged with pure exhaustion upon locating her in the great fog some fourteen-hundred kilometers above its normal flight range. He was rewarded with the entirety of her lukewarm meal and a soft space to sleep while she contemplated the generous offer.

As the North American expedition party had received foul news of visa denial from the British Ministry of Magic over an unruly Dragon Pox epidemic affecting the states just a week prior, Catherine’s current plans were rather up in the air. Which was quite fortunate for Matilda Weasley, it seemed.

And for her too perhaps, as she glanced back at the map on the table.

Her reply of interest was sent ahead to the local village post once the owl had finally regained his energy.

And then it was only a matter of days later, after capturing the poor shivering Fwooper who had been abandoned after a breeding program went haywire, that she was able to make it up to Columbia. The flight to Cuba had been uneventful, her broom sturdy in her grasp. Another owl had been awaiting her there, with a date and time written clearly in Matilda’s familiar penmanship. This letter she kept close to her person as she took off from the sunny island port.

Many individuals would have preferred to take one of the easily accessible Floo points, or even an ocean liner for such a long trip. But those methods of transport required luggage checks and that was something she was desperate to avoid for very particular reasons.

The following journey across to Cornwall had been a regretfully exhausting experience – even with the two Wide-Eye potions she had taken – as an unavoidable storm had sent her some kilometers off course which had left her a soaking mess by the time she entered the Celtic Sea. She had sworn off Muggle transportation ever since her first – and only – voyage on a steamship down to the horn of Africa.

Never again.

So, with her trusty broom, she made the long trek instead. Her hair was helplessly tangled from the gusts of stinging wind that pricked her skin with the sensation of pointed nettles. Her blonde locks hung in icy tendrils down her back, making her whole body shiver. Even the strongest warming charm couldn’t stop the shaking of her frozen fingers.

After two days of recuperation in the local inn, The Prickly Knarl, she had arrived at the meeting with not only the Deputy Headmistress but the new Headmaster as well.

Walter Aragon was nothing like his predecessor and perhaps that was all the more reason to giddily accept the position. A lover of beasts himself, their similar interest had sparked a three-hour-long conversation delving into the finer points of creature care and habitat protection. Their tea had grown cold and her face ached from smiling by the time she had signed the official job offer.

A warm sensation filled her stomach as she strolled down the steps of the Grand Staircase, striking up a conversation with Sir Nicholas over her new position at the school on the way to the Entrance Hall.

It had been over ten years since she had last stepped foot in the castle.

On more than one occasion, during her employment at Brood & Peck, she had spent time with Professor Bai Howin in her outdoor office – trading stories and information on local poachers and potential encampments. She even brought over a recently rehabilitated Diricawl or Kneazle from time to time. But her stint at the beast store was short-lived and her time away from Scotland grew with the flow of years. Though she kept in correspondence with Howin every other month or so.

But to be in the castle itself?

Her last recollection was that of a tearful goodbye on the day of her graduation held on a warm summer morning. Her exit from the castle was far calmer than her initial arrival at the magical school three years prior. Though the missing professor in the crowd of teachers forever left a sting in her heart.

As she crossed the courtyard, old memories seemed to come to life in her mind with every step. Thoughts of her first flying class and several rounds of Summoner’s Court with Ronen filled her head as Catherine headed for the classroom. The flags of the quidditch pitch flapped in the wind, reminding her of her short stint as Gryffindor’s seeker in her seventh year.

The vast sprawling hills and mountains felt like home.

She had climbed rocky cliffs in the Far East, swam in the swirling turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean, and even trekked inside a pyramid or two during her African expedition. But this? This was where her heart truly sang. Surrounded by the dew-covered grass, the tumbling breeze, and miles of undisturbed wilderness. The Highlands were everything she didn’t know she had missed during her time away, exploring the rest of the natural world.

With an even wider smile on her face, she takes off across the castle grounds, her hands digging deep into the pockets of her leather-hide trousers.

Even from a distance, in the grove of towering Scots Pine trees, she could tell that her specified repairs were in the works. The clang of hammers and the rumble of moving stone greeted her once she made it up the path’s small incline.

Though Bai had been more than happy to sleep near the outdoor classroom, Catherine had other plans for the space.

And the once towering hut was in the final stages of being fully disassembled piece by piece to make way for more enclosures. While there were four fully usable paddocks left over from her predecessor, the space was seriously lacking in her opinion. Part of the hut would be left behind for storage purposes: for feed, healing supplies, and grooming items.

Stronger cages would replace the old iron ones to contain more of the unsavory creatures she planned to introduce. Her sixth and seventh years were going to be in for quite a few surprises this school year if it all went according to plan (and if Matilda agreed).

All in all, her detailed ideas were being handled exactly as she had laid out to the Headmaster after her job offer had been signed.

She nods in approval, waving at the single house elf that was overseeing the unmanned construction instruments – he ducks his head bashfully with the given praise as she heads on to the castle.

The Bell Tower still maintains the indescribable musk of stale air and dusty artifacts. The dueling ghosts barely even pay her a glance as she passes through their wispy forms, making her way across the hall and down the stairs to the tapestry corridor. As her previous lodging was currently dismantled to the ground, she had made her second, and therefore last, request.

Though she had no desire to sleep alongside the creatures, she did wish to remain close enough in case of emergency. If she had learned anything since her first Beasts class some thirteen years ago, it was that magical creatures were nothing if not unpredictable. And with her new room being located just a few minutes walk from the paddocks, she felt more than comfortable with the arrangement.

The room in question had been emptied of all its previous statues. Though the hall outside had gained a few choice pieces: a Hippogriff, a Phoenix, and what appeared to be a badly carved Chimaera in place of the ghoulish-looking stuffed Trolls that had once taken up residence amongst the three woven tapestries.

The old storage space was far warmer than it once had been. Comfortable white and gold rugs covered the stone floor, and a newly conjured fireplace heated the area considerably with its crackling logs. Her paintings, which had been sent ahead from her personal vault in Gringotts, were now proudly adorning the walls, brightening the area even further.

Painted birds swoop past the lush Amazon rain forest, a lone Sphinx stretches out lazily upon the sand of the Egyptian desert, shimmering blue eggs clink together in an Antipodean Opaleye’s nest in the green New Zealand valley. She places the portrait of the sun rising over the sea above her bare-bones bed frame and feather mattress. A Kelpie jumps through the water with a gentle splashing sound as she adjusts the leveling of the painting.

Catherine carefully deposits the large leather bag near the end of the unmade bed – eyeing it with a hint of suspicion for just a moment before she gives a nod and goes to sort through her secondary luggage.

She spends the rest of her day removing items from her traveling bag, the one that was nearly full despite its expandable charm. Celestial blue and gold bedding is tossed against the wall in a heap – it was in desperate need of a good wash after being stored away for so long. But her various books and decorations made their way onto the shelves and cabinets. A large iron perch takes up residence next to the fireplace.

She fussed over the arrangement of her sitting area. Positioning the armchair this way and that until she finally just collapsed into the blasted thing and took a much-needed break.

A very kind house elf appeared but minutes later – with a tray filled with sandwiches, biscuits, scones, and a carefully placed lavender teapot. All courtesy of the Deputy Head who knew she would be up to her eyes in sorting out her chambers and classroom but didn’t want to disturb her at the present moment.

“Please send Professor Weasley my regards and tell her she can find me buried under a pile of unsorted clothes if she requires my presence.”

The house elf looked a little perplexed by the request but shrugged his shoulders and disappeared with a snap of his bony fingers.

After allowing herself the luxury of stuffing three cucumber sandwiches into her mouth and finishing off two blackberry scones – the jam sticking to her fingers, which she lazily licked off – she finally got back into the thick of it.

Only once the window near her sleeping area turned dark with the ebb of nightfall, could she stand back and declare her quarters finished. And with the low embers of the fire battling off the frigid chill of the dungeons, she conjured up a bath and allowed herself to slip under and soak in the steamy water until her tired muscles went lax and tingly once again.

In the morning, Catherine would check in with Matilda, look over the outdoor classroom’s progress, and possibly even head up to Hogsmeade for supplies. Perhaps she would even be afforded time to fly down to the coast to canvas some of the numerous caves. But for now, she closes her eyes, resting her head on the edge of the metal tub, and savors the feeling of returning home after so many years away.

Though she had arrived at the beginning of August, before school supply letters were even sent out, she was surprised to find only a few professors were currently settled into a routine at the school. When she was a student, it had never occurred to her to spare a thought for the personal lives of the staff. Was it silly to assume they stayed at the school year-round?

Only due to her proximity to him, she finds herself running into Professor Binns a little too often for her liking. Though she was entirely polite about the happenstance and would indulge him for a moment about his exhilarating plans for the upcoming school year in regards to Goblin-related topics.

As though Catherine hadn’t experienced enough Goblin-related battles for a lifetime.

“Personally, I always found the rebellion of 1612 far more interesting than the one in 1752,” was apparently the wrong thing to say, as she found herself on the opposite end of an hour-long argument over the worthiness of the later Goblin rebellion.

“Were it not for the quick and calculated planning of the wizard tailor Grimbald Weft, who, as you may know, was a wizard from the small community of Mould-on-the-Wold, a rather fascinating village known for its contributions to the agriculture of several wizarding towns in the later half of the 18th century –“

Madam Scribner was devoted to looking over each and every book in the library, dusting the old tomes, and sending up levitated feather dusters to clean off the large portraits on the second-floor balcony. The librarian had barely paid the new hire any attention when Catherine went wandering up to the upper level in search of books covering local cartography.

There was of course Matilda and Headmaster Aragon, though he was more prone to stopping by for the morning than staying for a full day at this point.

By the time letters were sent out during the middle of the month, more familiar faces seemed to appear in the halls. Her new colleagues blinked back their shock once they realized just who was set to replace Howin. Apparently, the news had been rather sudden when, back in early April, Bai had received a request to join an Eastern expedition set to observe and possibly relocate a new grouping of Yeti in Nepal.

Catherine herself had almost accepted the offer to join the group if it hadn’t been for her already set plans to head to the States with another team. Though those plans ultimately fell apart due to the Pox epidemic and now she was here. Fate had a funny way of working sometimes, she thought with a smile as she greeted a surprised Professor Ronen in the Transfiguration Courtyard.

“The Great Catherine Hart!” he chuckled, immediately swooping her up into a tight hug, “Can it be you have returned to us after all this time?”

The warmth in her body bloomed into a bright laugh as she pushed back her blonde plaited hair, “It would appear you were in need of a new Beasts professor and Matilda managed to get an owl to me in time. I couldn’t even dream of turning it down.”

They quickly caught up over a shared game of exploding snap in the staff room, leaving burnt card-shaped marks on the table, as Catherine regaled him with stories of her travels and he happily told her about his vacation to Switzerland with his wife, Margo over the summer break.

“We went sailing on Lake Geneva. Would you believe it, I tipped us right over into the water. You should have heard her admonishing me while I giggled like a schoolboy – “

“In the summer of ‘98, I had the misfortune of trying to single-handedly wrangle a wild herd of Abraxans from charging upon a Muggle town in Italy – “

For only a moment, at the beginning of her stay in the castle, when she encountered the Deputy Headmistress out after nightfall, did she feel entirely out of place. Speaking to her old professors, not in the place of a student, but as a colleague. Referring to them, comfortably, by name. Asking about matters she never would have broached prior to her employment.

Perhaps sharing correspondence with Bai over the years had made the transition more agreeable. As she was now content with calling out to Abraham about sharing a drink in Hogsmeade before the start of term as he headed up the stairs to inspect the state of his classroom.

At twenty-eight, though she had not experienced the world in its entirety quite yet (she still had North America and Antarctica to explore, after all), she felt competent in her position and her new role amongst her fellow professors. It would take time – she was sure of it – before she was fully submerged in the job, but for now, it was flowing exactly as it should be.

The staff meeting happens on the 24th, sometime before dusk. The time seemed to be intentional as she is greeted with several bottles of drinks awaiting the professors on a tray in the corner – seemingly to be distributed after the meeting.

She greets Matilda before taking a spot near the fireplace, watching as the others begin to trickle in one by one. Professor Garlick had been delighted to see her once she had returned over the weekend. Shah had given her a cordial greeting too. Kogawa had been elated to see her, immediately asking after her new broom model. There was of course the new Defense teacher as well.

Dinah Hecat had left four years prior, on her own terms, as the state of her slowly deteriorating condition began to catch up with her properly. Roland Sterling was a smartly-dressed wizard who met her with a very firm handshake when he properly introduced himself yesterday. He was young, three years older than her if she remembered correctly. But his skill was undeniable, or so Ronen had said when she asked about the placement over a game of gobstones during their shared lunch.

There were only five individuals on staff who were under the age of forty: herself, Roland, Nurse Blainey, Garlick, and Eunice Moore – the arithmancy professor who had scarcely left her classroom since she arrived Tuesday afternoon.

As it was an official meeting with her new colleagues, she chose to dress the part. Forgoing her usual work trousers and dragon-hide waistcoat in favor of a more modest navy skirt and white shirtwaist. Even her hair had received moderate attention this afternoon as she managed to wrap her braid into a carefully coiffed chignon.

She spies her reflection in the curve of a small silver trophy upon the mantelpiece and finds that she rather loathes how matronly she appears to look.

Noticing the slow uptick in chatter now within the room, Catherine hurriedly tugs at two tendrils of her hair – letting them drape gracefully along the frame of her face. Satisfied, she moves to grab a seat at the table before the meeting officially begins. She’s positioned near the end of the setup and Chiyo is more than happy to take the seat to her left as the other professors seem to get the idea and begin to fill the other chairs.

There was only one face she had yet to see during her time at the school as she reacquainted herself with the old halls. Everyone had been quite busy settling back in and preparing their lessons and whatnot. But he was the only one who had evaded her search thus far.

That very face is one of the last to appear at the meeting, grimacing as he makes his way into the room and around the table – taking one of the last available seats; the one on Catherine’s right.

Sharp eases himself into the chair with a pronounced wince and grit of his teeth, acknowledging Ronen across from him, before his gaze finally turns and he makes eye contact with her for the first time in ten years.

His dark brows hitch slightly, as his mind seems to map through some rather interesting equations by the looks of it before the smallest smirk graces the corner of his lips.

“Professor Sharp,” she says politely, inclining her head ever so slightly in his direction – wanting more than anything to start out on the right footing with her old instructor.

The Potion Master chuckles for a moment too short, glancing away before once again meeting her gaze, “Professor Hart, is it then?”

Her eyes gleam with pride, “As of the fourth of this month I’m officially a member of staff, yes.”

There’s a minuscule nod, his attention focusing on Aragon as he makes it into the room at last – with a bundle of unorganized papers and an apologetic smile on his thin face.

“Bai spoke highly of you,” his gruff voice says softly over the dying chatter of the others – his eyes still trained on the Headmaster. “I’m sure you will do her proud.”

Fighting off a smile, Catherine kneads her hands together in her lap, trying not to appear like the overzealous new professor she clearly felt like at the moment.

By the time she manages to get her pride under control from the small bit of bolstering and praise given by her former teacher, Aragon is already in the full swing of apologizing for his tardiness and exclaiming how excited he is to be taking on the monumental role of Headmaster after such an illustrious predecessor.

It takes nearly everyone’s self-control to not outwardly guffaw at the mention of the illustrious Phineas Nigelus Black.

The meeting itself is rather informative for her. Reminders of enforced rules, curfew times, and the importance of awarding and deducting a fair amount of house points. Several professors seem to draw their attention down to the blushing Defense teacher, who ducks his head to the side as if something has taken his interest across the room. She can tell there’s a story there as she catches Ronen’s playful gaze from across the table.

“I’m grateful to you all for submitting your budgetary requests so promptly this year,” Matilda says. “If you find any pressing concerns, you can speak to me privately after the meeting. Though I imagine this year we will find ourselves in a rather fortunate position in those regards.”

The unspoken bit at the end of that sentence seemed to be a not-too friendly reminder of the previous Headmaster’s rather horrendous budget constraints. Luckily for Catherine, she would be requiring only bits and pieces to fund her classroom. The creatures themselves were on loan, as it was. Even some of the food would be easily supplied by the Hogwarts gardens.

“As a reminder, our first Hogsmeade weekend will happen on the third of October this year. Expect to have the schedules delivered in a days time. I believe you will find the rotations to be more than fair. And on that note, the night shifts will be sent along as well. Exceptions to the patrol are the same as last year. Satyavati, you’ll be taking on the weekend shifts, as your classroom hours are impossible to work around. Also, Ranira, your arrangement still stands.”

She has to bow her head to avoid any attention during that particular part of the meeting. As staff patrols were not a thing prior to her fifth year. It appeared at the beginning of her sixth year, for whatever reason she can’t be sure.

Perhaps it had something to do with a fifteen-year-old sneaking out of the castle at every opportunity, going on secretive missions under the instruction of one professor, and single-handedly defeating the leader of a goblin rebellion in a hidden chamber under the school. Or maybe it had to do with students leaving their dorms to meet up with their sweethearts or stroll down to the Restricted Section, who could say for sure.

Whatever the reason, the teachers had all taken on the insufferable task of patrolling the halls of the castle every day of the week well past the midnight hour. And it seemed the structure had remained in place even after she graduated. Pity.

And then, of course, there’s a rather sudden introduction of her to the rest of the staff.

“As you all are aware, Professor Howin has taken an indefinite leave as she joins an excursion party into Nepal. I am pleased to welcome Miss Hart to our teaching staff. I can think of no one better qualified for the position.”

She inclines her head in acknowledgment, all too aware of the stares and encouraging smiles of her colleagues. Her own stomach turned with the swell of the spotlight.

“And I believe that about sums up everything,” The Headmaster claps his hands together. “So, in preparation for another year, let me welcome you all to get properly inebriated!”

With a resounding cheer, Aragon levitates the drink tray over to the table and pops the corks off several bottles, shimmering goblets and crystal glasses appearing just a moment later.

Mirabel circles the table almost immediately, wrapping Catherine into a tight hug – nearly jostling her wine as she does so. She smells of summer-warm marigolds and lemon verbena.

“Bai would be most envious of your new classroom,” she smiles. “I took a walk around the grounds just yesterday afternoon in search of extra mallowsweet for my first-years. It looks lovely, Catherine. Speaking of, you must come by the greenhouses – it’s been so long!”

Ronen wasn’t too far behind, clapping her warmly on the shoulder before clinking their glasses together. Even Aragon took his time going from professor to professor, landing into a lively conversation with her and Shah, of all people, about local creatures.

“You wouldn’t believe the luck I had when I was off visiting my sister over the summer break,” Shah had said. “I swear there was a flock of Auguries who followed us from town to town for the entire stay. Barely a clear day in the whole trip.”

“They are quite perceptive to the weather, you know.”

As she swayed between conversations and groups of chatting and drink-happy colleagues, she would catch the occasional gaze of the Potions professor from his spot near the unlit fireplace – looking perfectly content to remain in the cream-colored armchair with a small glass of amber-colored drink in his left hand.

He spoke to Armando Dippet for a short time as the man pressed past. As well as Crestwell and Waterford – the Muggle Studies and Study of Ancient Runes professors, respectfully. But the conversations were brief in comparison to the rest of the circles.

It was Kogawa, who told her all about the House point mishap of 1899 – all done with barely-contained giggling whispers as she partook in yet another bottle of wine.

The newly-appointed Defense teacher had been a little too eager to award his House points for every correct answer – racking up almost two hundred points by the end of the first month, while the other three houses seemed to lose points faster than they could make them up. It took a gentle intervention from the Deputy Headmistresses to set Sterling right.

As the atmosphere warms, the chatter rising and the laughs increasing, Catherine makes her way back around the long table – nearly tripping over her own feet as she bumps into the corner of it. Finding herself in the company of Sharp once again. He regards her with a single uninterested look. Seemingly content to swirl the amber contents of his glass, while a deep frown lays upon his rugged features.

Grabbing hold of one of the wooden chairs, she spins it around in her grasp and carefully settles herself on the seat – pushing her skirt to the side to avoid tripping over it. She sips from her goblet, watching with amused eyes as Chiyo starts performing a hap-hazardous jig with Roslin Kearney, the music professor, across the room.

“So,” she breathes out, catching the eye of the Potion Master once again. “Any advice for a new professor?”

A tell-tale smirk crosses Sharp’s lips as he settles back into the cushion of the chair and finally meets her eyes once again. He finishes off his drink, gaze momentarily distant as he conjures up a proper reply.

“While our departments vastly differ, some common advice would be to tackle the papers before they overtake your desk and your personal time. Fifth-years, by nature, are a nervous wreck come spring and you’d do good to take your grace with them. Third and sixth years are the true trouble of the populace.”

Sharp takes a moment to grab hold of the Firewhiskey on the table next to him, refilling his glass. He grunts with the effort of reaching back to place the bottle and for a second she allows herself to ponder what the extent of his pain is after a further decade.

“Conflict arises and you will need to act, despite every part of yourself that strives to be the better sort of professor.”

“Is that spoken from personal experience?” Catherine asks with a hint of toying in her voice.

It was strange, finding herself on equal footing with Sharp. With the others, it had come almost naturally. Perhaps it was his demeanor, that impenetrable stone-wall exterior of an ex-Auror and seasoned teacher.

His cedar eyes harden momentarily, “No.”

Stifling a laugh with another careful sip of her wine, she watches the way his dark gaze sweeps across the occupants of the room. Ever observant, ever on guard – always watching.

When he replies, his tone is even, bordering on wistful.

“Every new professor who has passed through these halls seems determined to be better than the best of them. By the end of the year, they’re yanking their hair out from students ignoring their every word, and using their kindness to their own advantage. Nip the distraction before it becomes a problem.”

She nods, “Duly noted. I appreciate the advice.”

Sharp huffs, tipping his glass back before finally depositing it on the table.

“I highly doubt you needed it.”

He grips the armrests as he moves to stand, an obvious whine of discomfort is held tight in his throat as he steadies himself slowly.

Catherine sets her goblet down on the staff table behind her as well, standing to move the chair back into its proper place – removing the obstruction from his path. She meets his gaze, head-on, with a gentle curve to her lips.

“But it’s still welcome, all the same.”

Sharp gives a curt nod, looking as though he wants to say something further, but he ultimately grimaces and says, tightly, “If you’ll excuse me, Hart.”

She ducks out of his way, watching as he exits the room with a quick wave toward Aragon as he goes.

Yes, it appeared that the limp had worsened considerably since her time as a student.

His back hunched ever so slightly as he moved, taking shorter steps as he forced his weight down onto his good leg. Only once his figure disappears from sight, does she return her attention to the party. Mirabel calls her over almost instantly, catching her eye from across the room, demanding stories of her travels as she strides over to meet her fellow professors.

“Well, when I was trekking across China three years back, I accidentally found myself in the den of a very cross Chinese Fireball – “

The party eventually winds down, with several professors claiming the need to retire for the evening lest they receive a truly awful hangover in the morning. It was only Monday, after all.

She giggles at the sight of Mirabel and Chiyo swaying through the courtyard, singing a local tune from the taverns no doubt. Matilda bids her goodnight, flushed and clearly a little tipsy before she makes her way toward the other side of the castle.

When the singing duo is out of earshot – headed for the Greenhouses by the looks of it, she finally sighs. Tugging at the pins that held her chignon together, she smooths out her braid as it lays upon her shoulder, storing away the hairpins into her pocket.

It was a truly wonderful experience that evening, connecting with everyone and feeling like she was on equal ground with her previous instructors. With a final glance towards the lingering darkness of Central Hall, she turns down the stone corridor.

Through the double doors, she’s hit with the familiar metallic scent of the potions hall. A lingering smell of boiled dittany, earthen ingredients, and charred cauldrons fills her senses as she spots the warm glow of the open classroom. Unable to help herself, Catherine peers into the room.

Apparently, Sharp hadn’t retired to the Faculty Tower for the night as she had initially thought.

Taking a step into the room, her low-heeled boots click against the cobblestone floor as memories float to the surface of her mind. Her first class some thirteen years ago, Garreth’s ever more adventurous exploding brews, the defensive lessons with Sharp that had left her both exhausted and equally invigorated.

Her fingers run across the rough surface of the table, edges chipped and cracked by potions gone awry, no doubt. She spots the chalkboards in the far corner of the room, already filled out with lesson plans in tightly-lined writing.

Essence of Insanity? The seventh-years would certainly have a time with that particular concoction. And what was it he had set up for his newest students? She paces towards the neighboring board and has to hold back a laugh when she sees Cure for Boils written at the top.

An immediate memory of her small stint as Headmaster Black comes to the forefront of her mind. That was perhaps the greatest Christmas present she had ever received – the look on poor Ominis’ face!

It’s the clearing of a throat that makes her turn away, eyes going a little wide as she catches sight of Sharp watching her from the open doorway of his office. He had removed his overcoat and was now clad in only his gray waistcoat and pressed undershirt.

For just the briefest flash, she has to remind herself that she is not in fact a student that had been caught out after curfew by the strict professor. No, now she was just a tipsy young teacher making a slight fool of herself in front of her esteemed colleague.

He merely raises a brow in her direction as she sheepishly makes her way over to him.

“Surely you’re not in need of more teaching wisdom already.”

She grins, feeling the warm flush of wine bubbling happily in her belly as she rests against the edge of the table across from him – nearly slipping as her feet seem to be reluctant to maintain her center of gravity.

“I think I’ll wait till after my first week to come crawling back for assistance.”

He smirks, a silent chuckle on his lips as he leans against the stone door frame, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Worried you’ll be in need of a particular potion come morning then?”

Another giggle escapes her mouth as she shakes her head.

“I don’t think I’ll be the one needing a hangover cure tomorrow. Abraham and Matilda on the other hand…”

“They hold their liquor far better than you’d expect,” Sharp admits softly, his eyes examining her features in search of something that’s apparently laid bare on her face.

A silence stretches for a beat too long between them. Catherine notices the way he has his left leg situated, resting his weight on the heel of his boot as opposed to flat down on the floor. The glimmer of something shiny, just behind him resting on the edge of his desk, catches her attention – like a Niffler to a jewel-encrusted necklace – before his words draw her back in.

“Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?”

Catherine blushes, brushing down her skirt with her sweaty palms for a brief second, “I apologize. I saw the light as I made my way down. I was drawn in by old memories I suppose.”

Sharp grits his teeth, adjusting his position again and she has half the mind to ask if he wants to sit back down but she ultimately holds her tongue.

“Ah, off to check on your beasts, no doubt.”

“Off to bed, actually,” she bristles slightly, tugging at the loose strands of her braid.

He looks her over once, an amused expression crossing his features as he says in a slightly chastising tone, “I believe the Faculty Tower is in the other direction, Hart.”

“I’m well aware of that, Sharp. But if you must know, my chambers are at the end of the tapestry corridor since Howin’s cabin is no longer standing.”

There’s a moment where his brows rise and his dark eyes flash. She barely misses the slightest downturn of his lips into a deeper grimace. Was he so repulsed at the thought of her quarters being in proximity to his storeroom? Maybe her time as a student had truly soured his opinion of her. Admittedly, her exploits had been the topic of conversation amongst the students and staff right up until graduation.

“Honestly,” she continues on. “I’ve been here for almost a month now. Maybe if you poked your head out of your office every now and then you would have had the chance to speak to me before tonight.”

Taking note of his rigid stature, Catherine eases her tone – realizing that the glass of wine and two shots of Firewhiskey might have been affecting her reaction to a simple inquiry.

“In the hall by the stairs, there was an old storage room – filled to the brim with statues. Matilda had the elves clear it out for me before I arrived.”

Sharp nods in understanding.

“I wondered what had become of the Trolls.”

“Nasty things, if you ask me,” Catherine says, pushing off from the table to pace back and forth while keeping her eyes on him. “Bit barbaric, honestly. If nothing else, it just frightens the younger students. It’s hardly teaching material, is it? But there is this lingering smell in the hall that I can’t seem to get rid of – which I blame entirely on dusty old stuffed trolls, to be clear.”

She feels a swell in her chest as she realizes Sharp is smiling softly at her little drunken ramblings. Not the best impression to make, of course. Coming to an almost immediate stop, Catherine smooths down her braid and offers up a timid smile.

“And I believe that’s my cue to head down before I begin telling you all about the Pixies I found hidden in a hole behind the tapestry of the wizard with the golden phoenix last week.”

He smirks in amusement, “An enthralling tale, I’m sure.”

Ducking her head with the surge of embarrassment running through her, she says a quick, “Goodnight, Sharp,” before she heads out of the humid classroom and makes for the spiral stairs. Her cheeks burn and her stomach lurches unpleasantly.

Well, at least she wasn’t the one singing drinking songs at the top of her lungs this evening, she tells herself. No, Catherine was quite looking forward to teasing Mirabel relentlessly for her rendition of “My Witty Witchy Lass” come morning.

In the safety of her chambers, she blames the slight racing of her heart on her excessive consumption and shamefully drunken encounter with an esteemed colleague that she was expected to work alongside of. She had to sort herself out before the students arrived if she ever wanted to be taken seriously. Both by them and her fellow staff members.

Aesop had been largely absorbed by his lesson planning this past week. Though many of the materials and units of study had remained relatively unchanged over the two decades of teaching the subject, he still enjoyed refining certain aspects every year or so. In fact, he had only just returned to the school – having spent the past month and a half in Northern England, where he had a residence.

The return to the castle had been entirely uneventful, but the minute he apparated outside of the gates, his chest ached with that familiar feeling. This was truly home for him, as he spent the better part of the year here. However, that wasn’t just it.

While many of his colleagues had a life away from the school, this was the central aspect of his life now. After he left the Auror Department, there was very little awaiting him in the ruins of the accident. Aesop had latched onto this opportunity when it presented itself just a year later. This is what he had.

And while he had enjoyed his time away, savoring in the simple life for a short time – the days where he could sleep in past seven and drink himself into a stupor without cause for concern – this was where he felt he had a true purpose.

Aesop spends most of his days preparing his classroom, detailing out lesson plans, and studying the incoming class listings. Headmaster Aragon takes the time to come down and introduce himself properly. And though Aesop likes the man – far more than his predecessor, of course – he finds the visit largely cumbersome toward the work he’s trying to accomplish.

“You know, Sharp. I must commend you, I regret I was a rather poor student when it came to potion-making. It must take quite a deal of patience to handle the different abilities of your students.”

He had merely hummed in affirmation, wishing for the man to be called away so he could return to the solitude of planning.

In fact, Aesop had found himself so invested in the preparation of his department, that he had scarcely seen another faculty member prior to the meeting. Abraham sought him out, of course, to share in the traditional evening round of Ogden’s Old before term began. And Garlick had managed to track him down as well to discuss their usual ingredient cultivation arrangement.

His days started late and his evenings dragged on well past the midnight hour. By the time he returned to his chambers, the rest of the castle was soundly asleep – the portraits had the annoying habit of loudly shushing him whenever he went to unlock his door.

Aesop’s thoughts had rarely strayed from the upcoming year and it was only with a distant curiosity that he even found himself thinking about Howin’s new replacement. It was with a small amount of shock that he found himself sitting next to his former student; the Hero of Hogwarts herself.

Though Bai had taken to reading her correspondences with Hart every time a new letter arrived, Aesop admittedly hadn’t considered the possibility of the young witch taking on the role.

When he found himself situated in the armchair in the staff lounge, just after Howin received the rare note from the well-traveled creature enthusiast, he would occasionally overhear the tales of her adventures. Tracking down Demiguise in the Far East, rehabilitating Fire Crabs from a poacher in Fiji, and a run-in with a Tebo in the Congo.

Her most recent correspondence from February outlined Miss Hart’s nearly fatal rescue of a Peruvian Vipertooth – much to everyone’s shock and horror.

The woman was clearly deep within the realm of reckless youthful adventuring. To see her, sitting at the staff table looking like a proper teacher, was rather unnerving. Though he greeted her without issue and spoke of Bai’s praises.

What he spent the remainder of the evening doing was pondering the question of why. Why she had forgone her travels to teach. Was it a promise to her beloved Beasts professor? Or perhaps there was a deeper meaning. As he refills his drink, he can’t help but watch the way she moves between their colleagues.

She fits in. That’s what’s strange about it.

Sterling had been a boisterous, but also oddly awkward, individual when he began teaching a few years back. It had taken the better part of a full term for the man to begin to work his way into the older teaching circle. And only thanks to the likes of Mirabel was he ever fully incorporated into their outings to the village.

But Miss Hart…

Aesop shakes his head, staring down into the Firewhiskey in his glass as she makes her way over with a timid smile.

He’s waiting for that same overzealous sort of conversation he had been on the receiving end of when Sterling was first introduced. That naive sense of higher experience than the rest of them. But she properly surprises him when she asks for advice, of all things. He searches her gaze and finds nothing but genuine interest and a twinge of nerves.

So, he tells her what he wished he himself had heard when he began working at the school. Though with her wealth of experience, he honestly doesn’t believe she’ll be in much need of his – or anyone else’s – words of wisdom.

Aesop excuses himself as the prospect of spending any more time in the presence of his drunken colleagues tends to render him rather uninterested. At best, he could reserve a tolerance for those moments during the monthly Hogsmeade outing, but no more than that.

It takes him a few minutes to cross the courtyard and return to his classroom – just a few steps too many for his leg’s liking.

He has every intention of downing a pain potion and finishing up a stack of late correspondences that had been sitting in his inbox since he arrived back at the castle. A handful of notes here and there from old associates at the Auror’s office, an invitation to a Ministry gala in the winter, a reply from Pippin about a rare plant he had come across in his studies over the summer holiday.

Were it not for the soft footsteps outside of his office door, the tittering laughter was enough of a giveaway. He takes a moment to stand before he heads to the doorway – watching as Hart looks over his prepared lesson plans on the chalkboards.

Perhaps she wasn’t aware that he was still there, as she seems to sway slightly when she moves along to the second board – completely engrossed by what she sees.

Only when he catches her attention does he realize just how tipsy the young woman is. Lost in the memories, she had said as her excuse for being in the classroom. And when she mentions the location of her quarters – well… it truly is his own fault for being completely unobservant.

He hadn’t taken the chance to stroll around the grounds before the students arrived back for the year. And perhaps if he had, he would have realized that the hut next to the Beast classroom was no more. If he had ever managed to go down to his chambers at a decent hour, he may have even seen her just down the hall. But to know that she was just a few steps away was rather unsettling.

Aesop had enjoyed the privacy these past five years. Kogawa had her rooms near her own classroom. And Moon was located out by the North Gate. Down here, he had enjoyed the solitude – the complete lack of students, in fairness. But now, it appeared that another member of staff had taken up residence just down from him.

When she bids him a rather quick farewell, he has to hide his chuckle – watching as she nearly knocks over a stack of cauldrons next to the door on her way out. He gives a tired shake of his head. The room seems quieter than it had been when he was alone: colder. Running a hand through his hair, he returns to his office and finishes off the replies as the clock strikes eleven.

The gold and rosebud-toned sky brought the promise of a gorgeous late-summer day as she began securing the wards around the Beasts classroom.

The familiar roll of incantations fell from her lips, and the surging sensation of her magic flowed from her core to the yew-carved wand – blue shimmers of spellwork slowly dissipated as she moved around the boundaries of the paddocks.

Her Flobberworms twitched on the table next to the covered pavilion, enjoying their morning cabbage and the warmth of the rising sun. While the Diricawls hooted from their enclosed paddock, madly disapparating and reappearing as they waited for their morning meal. At least the Jobberknolls seemed content in their large avian cage – swinging on their perches and peeking out from the branches of the oak tree. Bless the expanding charm, it was like a proper forest when you stepped into their enclosure.

Only once the wards are set in place and she feels firm in their strength, does Catherine begin the morning chores. The Fairies seem content to stare at themselves in the jeweled mirror today, so she passes them by in favor of her more impatient beasts.

The Hippogriffs are all pacing near the edges of their enlarged paddock when she approaches with two large buckets of dead ferrets – the smell alone makes her forcefully turn her head away. It didn’t matter how many times she had handled it over the years, some scents could just not be tolerated.

Their hooves are a thunderous symphony as they all push against each other in their eagerness.

“Come on now, back it up, back it up. Hey! I will show favoritism if you push it, Oswald.”

One by one they jump up to catch their breakfast, swallowing the meat almost whole before charging back in for another. Her fifth years were going to be in for an exciting first quarter, she was sure of it.

It’s the caw from a neighboring paddock that reluctantly has her moving on from Luann who had been pushing her beak into Catherine’s hand for more scritches.

“Yes, yes. I haven’t forgotten about you, I promise,” she informs the creature as she levitates over his specially primed meal.

“Spoiled little thing you are,” she coos as the raw steak flanks fly into the Griffin’s range.

While Matilda hadn’t been particularly keen on her bringing an XXXX-classified beast onto school grounds, Catherine had been adamant that her seventh-years were more than capable of interacting with such a creature. Not to mention, the insured promise of having more than enough protective wards and gear to keep everyone safe left no room for further argument.

And more importantly, Ominis had assured her that this specific Griffin was used to being around witches and wizards and was far tamer than any other he had encountered in Greece. Catherine hadn’t felt the need to ask why he was around Griffins in any capacity but chalked it up to the mysterious work that he never spoke of directly.

After checking in on the Knarls, Dugbogs, and Diricawls, and ensuring that the Fairies had their food laid out in dainty rose-gold porcelain cups, she makes her way over to the actual classroom.

Stored away in cabinets next to the chalkboard were her full lesson plans. All of which were meticulously written out earlier in the month. Bai had left her more than enough to work with and she was incredibly grateful for her predecessor as she eyed old copies of essay topics and test questions under piles of Jobberknoll feathers.

“Ah! I was hoping to find you here.”

Lifting her head from the parchment in front of her, Catherine offers a welcoming smile to the young Defense teacher as he comes up the path. His blue and gold waistcoat swirls and glimmers in the sunlight, his smile nearly blinding as he ducks into the covered classroom. He pulls off his matching navy cap, running a quick hand through his sandy blonde locks.

She straightens up immediately, untying her work apron from her waist. All too aware of what she likely smelled like after working, she casts a silent Scourgify on her muck-covered boots. Her dragon-hide gloves are carefully placed to the side as well before she addresses the man in front of her.

“And what can I do for you, Professor Sterling?”

“Roland, please,” he urges with another beaming grin. “And I was hoping I could compare lesson plans with you.”

“Oh?”

She grabs the wooden stool next to the cabinet and swivels to sit down on it as he leans against the table across from her.

“Howin was kind enough to let me know when she had particular creatures around, you see. A few were quite useful to my students these past years.”

Shuffling through her lesson plans, she nods with a smile, “Ah, I understand. Any beasts you were looking for specifically?”

At that, Roland digs into his waistcoat’s pocket and unfolds a small piece of parchment. His emerald eyes squint slightly as he tries to decipher his own writing.

“Pixies?”

She hums softly, dragging her finger across her plans until the name appears, “Looks like I have it set for my fifth years to begin studying them around the start of February. We’ll use them for about three weeks before we move on to Fwoopers.”

He hahs with delight, quickly scratching down the information.

They set about planning the timing around her introduction to Grindylows, Fire Crabs, and Kappas – the last one making him let out an involuntary cheer.

“The number of requests I made to Weasley last year to appeal for a single Kappa for my sixth-years – “

“Oh, I completely understand her reasoning, of course,” Catherine grins. “If Black was still Headmaster, I imagine I would be stuck with just a pack of Puffeskeins and Horklumps for my older students.”

Roland tucks away his notes, leaning on the table with his elbows, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

“No, Aragon is a considerable breath of fresh air in comparison. Lucky for you he seems to be invested in your department far more than the others.”

She blushes at the implication, quickly shuffling her papers back into a neat order. Hopping off the stool, she goes to file them back in their proper place. Speaking over her shoulder as she goes:

“I highly doubt that. Professor Onai said she could barely get him out of her classroom yesterday. He just wanted to discuss every little bit and piece of divination – broke her teacups more than once I believe.”

“And – “ she turns back toward her fellow professor, “He was down bothering Crestwell all day Tuesday.”

“Yes, so I heard in the lounge the other night. He has a… what was it again?”

“A motor car – they’re quite the rage in Muggle cities. I think Aragon was hoping to go for a ride in it, honestly.”

He chuckles, dipping his head down, “Now, I would pay good money to see that.”

Catherine hums at the thought, picturing the overzealous Headmaster not only removing the vehicle from its display case, but also trying to steer the petrol engine across the courtyard. Her amusing thoughts are quickly taken from her as Roland asks, quite abruptly –

“So, are you finished for the morning?”

At that, she blinks once before outwardly laughing.

She swipes a hand across her heated brow, “Hardly.”

Gesturing at the paddocks and cages, “I’ve just been waiting for them to finish their breakfast, you see. My Diricawls need grooming, the Jobberknoll cage needs mucking out, and the Dugbogs’ swamp needs readjusting – water temperature, you understand. Not to mention –“

She holds out her hand, wordlessly casting Accio as she summons her broom. It zooms across the yard before landing in her firm grip; her fingers flex along the handle with the muscle memory.

“My Hippogriffs and Griffin need to stretch their wings.”

Roland holds up his hands in playful defeat, laughing as he goes, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then, Hart.”

She gives him a curt nod as he makes his way back down the path to the West Tower entrance. After ensuring everything was back in its proper place, Catherine sets about unlocking the enclosures.

“Come on, then,” she whistles.

The Hippogriffs charge out of the paddock, down the hill towards the courtyard before they, one by one, take off into the air – stretching their wings as they soar above the school grounds. She watches with a trained eye as the Griffin takes his time trotting down the same incline. He turns back to seemingly watch her before he uses his hind legs to jump into a graceful arc – his wings expanding outwards as he glides.

After all the chores were checked off her list and a particular Jobberknoll’s wing was bandaged up, she takes to the sky.

It took a full hour to round everyone back up to their pens. Nigel, the single bronze-toned Hippogriff, required extra encouragement to land in the form of two delicious-looking ferrets. But she was eventually able to lock them in their secure little areas, wards safely back in place over the entire outdoor classroom – therefore preventing them from flying off on their own accord.

Back in the Bell Tower, she takes the stone steps two at a time as she enters the tapestry hall. A proper change of clothes was in order for her trek into Hogsmeade after all. But it’s the creaking sound of a door up the corridor that captures her interest first.

Professor Sharp enters the hall, his back to her, as he leans heavily upon a silver-headed cane. His head is tipped downward as he begins making his way down the corridor with a slow limp. At least it seemed he was taking in the last few days of moderate comfort before term, as he was once again devoid of his usual tailored jacket.

As she watches him go, she’s almost instantly reminded of her conversation with Sterling earlier that morning and she mentally wants to slap herself for forgetting to have a nearly identical talk with the Potion Master.

“Sharp!” she calls out, taking to a light jog as she hurries to catch up to him.

His back straightens before he turns to look at her. An unimpressed raised brow graces his face as Catherine comes to a breathless stop in front of him, a wide grin upon her lips.

“Sorry, I didn’t know when I’d have the chance to speak to you before the weekend.”

She glances at the door he had just exited from, expecting to see the potion store room, but that locked door is further down the hall and a question comes to mind, but once again she holds her tongue.

He’s staring at her when she returns her gaze to his. There’s the slightest tilt of his head as his earthen eyes put their full attention to her face. It’s nearly suffocating.

“You have a, uhm,” he clears his throat, carefully reaching his hand across the space between them, and picks a small downy gray-speckled feather from the top of her head.

He examines it for a moment – twisting it in his fingers. His lips turn up into the beginnings of a smile as she immediately flushes.

“That would be Napoleon’s,” Catherine says by way of explanation as she snags the feather from him with a sheepish smile and tucks it away into her trouser pocket.

At the amused raise of his eyebrows, she feels the need to elaborate.

“The young buck of my Hippogriff herd. I had them stretching their wings this morning and had to round them back up again. He’s the playful sort, wanted to race me, I think.”

The professor hums with that deep rumble of his before she remembers why she had called out for him in the first place.

“As I was saying, blame it on my inexperience, but I apologize for not getting with you sooner. I’m aware that you and Matron Blainey have an arrangement for brewing, as well as your work with Mirabel. If you have the time, I’d be amicable to discussing my own lesson plans with you.”

Understanding crosses his features as he inclines his head toward her, “That would be agreeable.”

“Perfect!”

Sharp begins striding toward the spiral stairs and Catherine quickly moves to walk alongside him.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your own planning session,” she realizes with a shade of embarrassment, having just thrust this upon him. Perhaps she should have made the effort to make an appointment with him first.

His cane clicks against the steps, his gait slowed by the ascent. Her eyes can’t help but travel to his left leg as he walks ahead of her. Had his foot always dragged the way it does now?

He hums in a thoughtful tone, gripping the head of his cane with whitening knuckles, “I’m merely awaiting the completion of several potions for the Infirmary at the present moment.”

“Ah, good timing then.”

The two of them enter the Potions classroom and she spots several cauldrons held under a temporary stasis charm – one that he immediately lifts upon entering the room. From scent alone, she recognizes the familiar Wiggenweld brew. Leaning over, she peers into the neighboring table’s cauldron set-up, ah. The antidote to common poisons, of course.

Her gaze lifts as Sharp settles into the chair at his desk, his cane hanging from the armrest by his right hand. She takes the unspoken cue and crosses the room, summoning a spare chair from one of the dimly lit alcoves to sit next to him.

As she settles onto the stool, Sharp takes hold of a teapot that had been left under a warming charm on his desk and begins pouring the contents into a white cup with intricate green and gold inlaid designs upon it.

“Tea?” he asks, not sparing a glance up from his current task.

She scoots forward on the stool, “If it wouldn’t be a bother.”

He nods, conjuring up a second cup from somewhere in his office. It floats past them on its own saucer which he snatches from the air, pouring once again.

Catherine hums her thanks as she takes a small sip of the warm drink – a herbal concoction that makes her face flush. She’s careful to move the cup away from her immediate reach as she grabs hold of the folded parchment from her trouser pocket.

“While I do have specific creatures that I’ll be rotating through throughout the year, it wouldn’t be terribly difficult for me to procure special ingredients if the need demanded it.”

“There are some – ” he admits, “that I find harder to come by during certain seasons.”

She nods quickly. Certain things, like Unicorn horn, could only be harvested at particular times of the year. Other creatures hibernated through the winter months and were nearly impossible to locate and disturbing them was only for the truly reckless.

“Well, you’re in luck then! I have several connections across the continent who would be more than willing to send a few things your way if your supplies were running low. Now, let’s see…”

He’s content with her current schedule of creature rotation. Flobberworm mucus, Jobberknoll feathers, Fairy wings, and Knarl quills would be available during the first quarter. Kneazle hair and Unicorn byproducts in the second – they’ll start shedding their horns by mid-January, so the timing will be just about right. Puffeskein and Thestral hair in the third quarter. And lastly –

His tone hardens significantly after she says it and her stomach drops with the sensation that she’s about to be on the receiving end of an infamously harsh Professor Sharp lashing.

She hadn’t experienced one of those since the spring of 1893.

“And what exactly are you intending to do with a Graphorn on school grounds?”

She can’t help but beam – she was no longer a student and his words didn’t create the desired effect he had likely hoped they would.

“Educate, mostly.”

Sharp rubs his temples, but she thinks she can spot the makings of what could be a smile under his hand.

“Salazar’s beard, Hart. I trust the Headmaster has at least been informed of your reckless intentions.”

“Of course!” She feels downright cheery now as she takes a sip from her teacup, “Mmm. He was very enthusiastic about the decision actually. Even Matilda was convinced of my plans by the end of the meeting.”

Feeling a twist of mischievousness creeping up her spine, she adds, nonchalantly, “I think the third years can handle it after all. Of course, we’ll be saving the Quintaped for my fifth years. And the Hebridean Black for the older students. They’re the tamer of the dragon breeds, you know.”

He lifts his head immediately, eyes widening before narrowing just as quickly.

The young instructor holds his steady gaze for a moment before ducking her head down with a ringing laugh. She has to cover her mouth with her hand when she sees the way he seems to sag with relief in his chair.

Oh, it was relieving to know that she could still give them all gray hairs even after all this time.

“Honestly, do you still take me for the reckless child I once was, Professor?”

Sharp sighs, resting his cheek in his right palm as he stares at her with a tired, but amused expression for a long-stretching moment.

“Do you wish for a truthful answer?”

“The cheek!” Catherine cries out, smiling brightly at the accompanying sound of his warm timbre of a chuckle.

The comfortable spell is broken by the sound of several alarms going off all at once. Her gaze draws to the cauldrons across the room in realization. The Potion Master hefts himself out of the chair, making his way to the finished brews with a grimace drawn upon his lips once again.

“Would you like some help bottling?” she asks, following after him.

He offers her a calculated look before answering in that usual gruff tone, “I believe I can handle the job. I’m sure you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Empty bottles fly out from a cabinet near his office, swooping past her before they land in neat little rows on the table beside him. She doesn’t want the warm camaraderie they had shared to end just yet. Stretching up onto the tips of her toes, she looks from him to the cauldrons and back again.

“Only a trip into Hogsmeade to set up orders with Ellie Peck, but that’s not particularly time sensitive.”

Sweeping her gaze toward him, tilting her head down and to the side to appear in his peripheral, she asks, “Do you not trust my ability to bottle and label Wiggenweld, Sharp?”

The ladle in his hand pauses, mid-air, as he sets her with a single raised brow that seems to say Honestly, Hart?

He huffs indignantly, returning his focus to the tedious task at hand.

“I merely assumed that your attention would be required elsewhere.”

Which is about as much of an invitation as she’s going to get. So, with a hidden smile of triumph, Catherine summons more bottles from the cabinet and begins working on the opposite table – scooping, measuring, corking, and labeling the antidotes.

There’s something comfortable about the process, similar to grooming the Kneazles or stocking the feed supplies. But while those tasks were usually done alone, in the heat of the afternoon sun, this particular task was done alongside another. Maybe it was the sense of companionship she had been missing.

It had been well over a year since her last long-stint with a group of fellow creature enthusiasts, after all. She had largely been working solo missions ever since her time in the Far East.

So, standing alongside Sharp, even though his interest in carrying on a conversation was null and void, felt oddly wonderful. Sparing him a glance as she begins sorting the bottled potions into an empty crate, she can’t help but feel the warm bubble of joy in her chest.

When the last of the cauldrons is emptied of its contents, parts of her hair have fallen out of her braid – loose strands curl around her ears from the humidity of the room, and she has to wipe the sweat from her brow.

By the end of it, they have a dozen or so boxes tightly lined with healing potions. She looks from the crates to the man before her and then the quickest glance down to his leg.

“I can take these up to Blainey if you want. I forgot how grueling it is to cross the castle with all these stairs. I certainly could use the exercise.”

Sharp actually rolls his eyes at that and she briefly wonders if she’s overstepped by insinuating that he couldn’t handle the journey up to the Hospital Wing on his own.

“Nonsense,” he says, flicking his wand at the crates, making them levitate beside him. “I have a connection to the Floo network in my chambers.”

“Oh,” is all she can say, quick to send a Levioso at her own stack of boxes as she moves to follow him out of the classroom – their brews trailing behind them.

And though there’s a moment where she wants to ask what the point is in traveling all the way to the Faculty Tower just to use the Floo, she bites her tongue. Particularly when Sharp turns to head down the stairs to the tapestry corridor instead.

She trails after him like a lost little Crup, past the potion storage cupboard before he stops in front of the second door – about halfway down the hall. He holds it open for the crates and for Catherine, who sheepishly slinks past him with a tight smile.

Oh, yes. This made much more sense.

Catherine takes in the living quarters of the Potion Master. Similar to the old room – the one that she most definitely had never snuck into during her time as a student – the dungeon chamber is decorated in warm red tones. A heavy scent of sandalwood caresses her senses as she spins in a slow circle, taking it all in.

There’s a folded partition screen to her right that seems to be placed to give the sleeping area an air of privacy. Stacks of books and papers adorn every surface. A small cart near the fireplace is decorated with several different bottles of ale and whiskey. Curiously, no portraits are adorning the walls this time.

Sharp strides across the room and she refocuses on her task – allowing the crates to come to a peaceful rest on the rug in front of the unlit fireplace.

As her colleague calls for the Hospital Wing, she slowly makes her way over to him – taking only a moment to glance at the writing desk across from her where several charcoal drawings seem to be haphazardly hidden away under a stack of dusty tomes.

When she looks back at Sharp, he’s on his knee in front of the fireplace, carefully sending on the crates through the harmless green flames. Realizing her situation, she moves to join him, passing along the crates one by one.

With the last one through, he dusts off his hands and looks over at her with a pleased glint in his dark eyes. She stands first, offering him her hand before he can even attempt to get up on his own. He seems momentarily reluctant, his eyes refusing to meet her gaze, but he eventually clasps his large palm in her smaller one and allows himself the assistance.

There’s a newly-formed grit to his voice as he continues to avoid her gaze, his eyes focusing on something just past her head.

“Thank you. With your help, I have reclaimed an extra hour to my day.”

“Of course,” she grins. “Two pairs of hands are better than one.”

Catherine allows herself a moment to take in his room once again. And then his attention is upon her and the brewing emotion in his eyes is enough to make her heart race.

“Well, best be on my way. I promised Sirona I’d stop by before term started and I fear I might have skipped breakfast to get everything arranged outside this morning.”

Sharp inclines his head, a small smile upon his thin lips, “Of course. I’m afraid I have the daunting task of finalizing my semester plans laying ahead of me this afternoon.”

She offers a chuckle, feeling her heart beat even out, “I do not envy you in the slightest. I’ll see you later then, I suppose – considering the proximity.”

He nods slowly, “Yes, I suppose we shall.”

With another parting word of thanks and goodbyes, she exits the Potion Master’s private chambers and heads down the hall to her own room.

How strange, she thought, as she switched into a clean set of clothes at last.

Perhaps he had made the move after having had enough of trying to tackle the tower stairs every night. The distance to his classroom was certainly ideal, much like her own request to have her lodging so close to her creatures.

When she heads into the main hall, she glances down the long corridor, half-expecting to see Sharp standing there again. But only the sound of the portraits chattering amongst themselves remains in his place.

Securing her worn leather traveling bag across her shoulder, Catherine makes for the stairs – looking more and more forward to the idea of having a warm meal and a good drink with a dear old friend.

Next Chapter

#aesop sharp x mc #aesop sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

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shireness-says · 6 years

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The Prickly Witch’s Guide to Magic

Summary: Emma Swan tries to keep the witch thing on the down-low. But when a handsome stranger discovers her secret and begs her to teach him magic, Emma finds herself using her powers for good to try and save his brother. ~9.6K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

A/N: It’s finally here - my @cssns piece! I’m really pleased how this one turned out, and I hope you love it too.

The fantastic fic art up top was put together by @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713, and will also be posted on her page. Go give her some love - she deserves it! Thanks for the edit, darling, I love it!

Special thanks also go out to my beta, @snidgetsafan; @distant-rose and @winterbythesea, who helped me come up with titles at the last minute; and the great mods for this event, @kmomof4, @winterbaby89, and @katie-dub. Thanks for making this such a great event, I’ve loved getting to know folks in the fandom!

Tagging the folks I think might be interested: @branlovesouat, @awkwardnessandbaseball, @searchingwardrobes, @courtorderedcake. If you ever want to be tagged in my stuff, sent me a message.

And a quick disclaimer: my knowledge of anything medical is completely non-existant.

Without further ado: Enjoy!

Emma tries to keep the whole witch thing on the down-low.

It’s not that she’s ashamed – she’s really not. It’s just that if someone’s going to put the whole witchcraft thing into the public eye, it should probably be one of the people who view it as a way of life or whatever, instead of Emma, who tends to treat it as a hobby at best.

The thing is, she wasn’t raised as a witch, and she didn’t really actively seek it out either. She just went into the second-hand bookstore looking for a birthday present for Mary Margaret, and the old, leather-bound tome had just seemed like it was calling to her – like it was there for her and her alone. Like it wanted her more than anyone (with the exception of her best friend) ever had. So she had bought it for nearly obscenely cheap and brought it home.

(She learns later it’s technically called a grimoire, but when she first found it on the shelf, it was just a weird looking old book with a lot of funny illustrations.)

It was just messing around at first. It was pretty obvious the book was about some sort of magic, filled with discussions about the pros and cons of using wands and short biographies of famous wizards (hello, Merlin and da Vinci) and the importance of using as fresh of snake scales as possible for maximum potion efficacity. Emma didn’t take it too seriously right away, but she was finally bored enough to look through it one day, and shocked to find most of the instructions actually worked. At first, it was just little things – seeing if she could turn on the lights (she could), make a grilled cheese appear (she couldn’t, but that’s apparently less about ability and more about obscure laws of witchcraft), clean her dishes (and oh fuck yes she could, this was the best book ever; her apartment would finally be clean and Mary Margaret would get off her back). So spells go pretty well.

And then she got into potions because her cramps were fucking awful one month and she never wanted to go through that again. So she looked through the book and found a potion for curing muscle aches and made up a batch to keep on hand. And the next month, when her uterus tried to kill her again, she tried it as practically a last resort, and it worked. It worked even better the next month when combined with the potion for “intestinal distress” that she found and thought might be good for the bloating (and hot damn, it was).

So Emma Swan, who can barely feed herself, is suddenly using her stove to cook up all kinds of potions – mostly the frivolous ones for, like, shiny hair or ‘an aura of confidence’ or whatever, but still. It counts. The massive soup pot Mary Margaret got her years ago has never seen so much use in its short, somewhat sad life.

And she kind of thought that’d be it – Emma Swan gains a weird hobby, keeps Mary Margaret stocked with all the aphrodisiacs she and David could ever hope to go through. But she’s out and about at a little café one day, and that same sixth sense that led her to the book starts going off again, and that’s how she meets Belle – librarian by day, witch and magical researcher by night.

And then Mary Margaret gets her a fish and calls it her familiar as a joke, and she and Belle keep meeting to try new spells, and it sneaks up on her, just like that, that oh my God she’s totally a witch. Even if Harold the goldfish doesn’t do much more than placidly putter about his bowl instead of helping Emma channel her magic, like she thinks a familiar is supposed to (that is the idea, right? The book wasn’t particularly helpful on that subject).

Things kind of spiral from there. It’s just her and Belle for a while, until Emma has to swing by the library to print stuff one day and finds a woman in there about to hyperventilate because she accidentally froze someone’s water bottle. And even if they haven’t noticed, the woman is still standing there shaking and muttering about this being why she can’t leave the house, and Emma can’t just let that go. So Emma manages to calm the woman down enough to get her into the Bug and back to her tiny apartment, and goes about plying her with hot chocolate made with magically operating equipment (à la Mrs. Weasley, if Emma’s being very honest about how this all looks) in an effort to show her that magic can be controlled and is actually a good thing. And that person is Elsa. Emma and Belle do a lot of research and invite Elsa to all their meetings, and are generally able to help Elsa get her powers under control – especially since so much of the problem was that Elsa thought she was the only person in the world who could do magic and everyone would hate her if they learned of her abilities. In time, Elsa becomes a regular member of their little social/research group.

(It’s especially nice when, after Elsa pulls her life together, she offers to let Emma live in one of the rooms of her old Tudor-style home and just pitch in on the utilities and groceries.)

(Anna still likes to periodically send Emma fruit baskets as a thank you for coaxing her older sister out of her shell, and Emma has never been one to turn down free food, even if the whole thing makes her somewhat uncomfortable. Emma Swan is not great at thanks, ok?)

Belle is the one who meets Regina at an old bookshop, when she actually has to fight her over an old spellbook (a fight that Regina wins because Belle is a total pushover, but what are you going to do). Regina is looking for a new circle after a whole debacle with her previous group – “My batshit crazy sister turned it into some sort of power-hungry coven, and I was not there for that” – and Belle is, again, too kind to say no.

(Never mind the fact that they’re practically becoming their own little coven after Belle moves in to one of the other rooms at Elsa’s, and shit, they really are becoming witches, aren’t they? Clichés and all.)

And they’re good, the four of them. Regina may want them to stretch their wings a bit, get out there and use their magic to effect small changes in the world, but Emma is more than happy with the way things are right now, searching out new texts and comparing notes with other local witches, and finding the perfect spell to extend their rooms to include an ensuite bathroom because that is a priority if Emma’s ever seen one.

But they’re not a coven. They’re just a group of mutual friends - or acquaintances, as the case may be with Regina - who all practice magic, and sometimes get together to do some research. That’s it. It’s like… a weird book club or something. And so what if they sometimes test out some of the more intriguing spells in the house or back yard? It’s not that unusual. And honestly, some of these spell names are so smudged they have to test them somewhere just to figure out what the hell they do.

(Oh fuck, they’re totally a coven.)

Honestly, Emma tries to keep her magic inside the house. That’s not everyone’s strategy; Elsa in particular uses hers out in the world, now that she’s opened an ice cream parlor, which makes sense given where her magical strengths lie. Belle sometimes uses her magic as a research tool at the library, Emma knows, especially when she needs that one specific book that has been reshelved in the wrong place (she’s actually fashioned this impressive computer application that will give her a map showing exactly where it is, which is hella impressive and something Emma thinks they could totally capitalize upon if the magic thing becomes common knowledge). Emma really doesn’t want to know if lawyer Regina is using magic in her profession because that seems pretty unethical. And Emma doesn’t want to be in the middle of it if it’s happening. Better for her to just… not know.

So she tries to keep the magic inside the house, but sometimes, exceptions have to be made. Like when she breaks a heel while chasing one of her skips and it just seems more efficient to create something magical for him to trip over than to keep chasing. Or when the horrible ancient computer in the bail bonds office freezes up again, and she sends a little spark into its ancient guts just to encourage any kind of action. Or any of the multiple things that go wrong with her Bug.

Like now. Standing on the street, staring at a dead battery.

And yes, eventually she will have to get that new battery, but it has been a Long Day, and Emma is tired, and she just wants to get home, dammit, without calling Belle or Elsa to come pick her up. And hey, she does have a way to fix this, doesn’t she?

So Emma metaphorically winds up and lets loose a little burst of magic, just enough to get the old girl running.

Unfortunately, when she steps back, satisfied with the now rumbling engine, she notices she has an audience.

Fuck.

She should have paid more attention, checked the area, but she was so damn tired, and now some dark-haired dude is staring at her with his mouth wide open. Which, granted, is warranted, since Emma just started her car with magic.

As Emma makes eye contact, his jaw snaps shut, and she throws him a look she hopes conveys “Don’t you dare tell anyone, idiot.” It must work, because he nods frantically with wide eyes. She’ll have to take his word for it; lord knows she’s not marching over there to demand a promise and even debating a memory spell feels far too Regina for Emma’s liking.

So with a final look, Emma gets into her car and drives away, trying to forget the whole debacle.

------

The problem is, she can’t just forget it, though not for lack of trying. After taking down her latest skip, Emma gets a few days off of work, finally getting the chance to replace her damn battery and even have a little downtime. But the afternoon of her first day back, when she’s just ready to get into her car and go back home to the creaky Tudor and maybe talk her roommates into takeout, he’s there, waiting for her to show up. The guy from the other day - the guy who saw her do magic, the guy who could probably expose her secret to the world if he felt like it - standing, just leaning against a streetlight right next to her car. And it’s fucking creepy, but Emma can handle herself. She’s got her gun at her hip and a switchblade in her boot and a whole encyclopedia in her head of ways to hit a man and make it hurt.

She’s just paging through her mental catalog for precisely which move she should use to get him to hit the road when he opens his mouth and shocks her.

“Can you teach me magic?” he demands, leaving Emma somewhat startled.

“Excuse me?”

“Magic,” the man repeats. “You have magic, right? Can you teach me?”

He may not actively be a threat, but he has now been reclassified as an annoyance in Emma’s book, which is almost worse. Threats? Emma can deal with threats: shoot them, punch them, kick them in the balls. An annoyance? Well, she still wants to do all that, but can’t find any justification to act on those impulses.

So again, Emma just rolls her eyes, climbs in her car, and drives away.

------

This continues for a week.

Emma will walk out of her building to find the dark-haired nuisance waiting and ready to beg. He always keeps his distance, never makes her feel unsafe, but is a near-constant irritation that she just can’t shake, dammit.

Her week goes something like this:

Monday: Tall, dark, and irritating flashes a grin he must think is flirtatious or disarming or something, starts to say “Excuse me, Miss, if I could just ask you a few questions…” and earns a car door slammed in his face for his trouble.

Tuesday: The annoying bastard comes with bribery this time in the form of a cup of coffee and that same charming smile. Emma gives him another look and drives away without words.

Wednesday: The persistent son of a bitch tries to get personal. “Hi there,” he starts, “my name is Killian Jones, and I was hoping we could talk -”

“Still nope!” Emma tosses over her shoulder before driving away.

Thursday: Emma doesn’t go in because she has an overnight stakeout that evening. It’s a nice break from Killian(noying) Jones.

Friday: He starts to seem a little desperate. He shows up with an honest-to-god hot chocolate and one of those packaged chocolate chip muffins she loves and tries to convince her (“The lady at the cafe said this is your order, and I was hoping to have a word with you…”).

Emma is not convinced, but she does take the muffin and tries to ignore the way his face falls in disappointment that her reaction hasn’t changed. (Even if she is starting to feel a bit bad, there’s no way in hell she’s taking an open beverage from a stranger. She’s not interested in becoming the next installment of Dateline, thank you very much.)

By the time the next Tuesday rolls around, he’s resorted to outright pleading.

“Please, Miss, I am begging you, teach me something about magic.”

Even Emma and her prickly heart are a little moved and intrigued by his desperation and persistence. A little. But the thing is, even if Emma wanted to teach him magic, she can’t. It’s not something he’d be able to just… pick up. You’re either born with the ability or you’re not, and Emma’s been able to tell which, ever since she first picked up the grimoire. It’s like a magic sixth sense or something, an itch under her skin that says all is not as it seems. It’s an itch she’s probably always had - come to think of it, that might have something to do with her lie detector and uncanny talent for tracking down people who don’t want to be found - but ever since she had found the book and delved into the study of magic, she’s suddenly and acutely been aware of that instinct. It’s how she met Belle, it’s how she met Elsa, it’s how she knows that her favorite waitress at the local diner isn’t just what she appears (and why Emma tries to tip extra well at the full moon, because if working with PMS is a bitch, working before you turn into a freaking wolf has to be equally awful). But this guy? This Killian Jones? Emma’s not getting any of her little mental alerts. There’s not a magic bone in his body. And Tuesday is the day she finally snaps and tells him as such.

“I can’t, alright?” she snaps. “Sorry to disappoint.”

But of course, a man as inexplicably desperate as he just has to push, to prod, to refuse to accept her damn answer.

“Well why not?” he demands. “Too busy? Just give me an hour, I’m sure we can figure something out - ”

“Because I can’t teach people who don’t already have magic, you idiot!”

His entire body practically collapses in on itself as he registers her words, and Emma almost feels bad. Almost. Except for the part where he’s been pestering her for a week now.

“You’re a muggle, Jones,” she chuckles humorlessly, before a thought catches her. “Why the hell is it so important that you learn magic, anyways?”

------

She feels like a total ass when he tells her.

Killian Jones, she learns, has an older brother, who is his entire world.

“He’s all I have left,” he chokes out through the tears. Because Liam Jones, beloved older brother of one Killian Jones, has been in the hospital ever since a drunk driver plowed into his car a month ago. There’d been a convenient bus stop nearby with a bench on which they could sit and talk, but Emma finds that he’s having trouble meeting her eye, as if fully facing the woman he’s begging for help means facing the reality of his brother’s situation. “The doctors were able to set the broken bones and fix the internal bleeding, but he won’t wake up. They’re saying things about brain damage…” the sad, dark-haired man in front of her trails off, running a hand through his hair. Emma can’t decide whether the gesture is more absent-minded or distressed. “He’s everything to me. And they’re saying it will take a miracle for him to ever be alright again.” His back straightens, as if with new resolve, and finally fully turns to face her. “Well, I don’t have a miracle. But you have magic, and I thought if you could teach me, that might be enough.” As the memory of her earlier words catches up, he slumps again. “But if you can’t teach me…”

“I can’t,” she interrupts, hating herself for the abruptness as new tears spring to his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I won’t help.”

For the first time, she sees a flicker of hope cross his face. “Yeah?”

Emma nods, once, definitively. “Yeah. Hop in.”

------

“Dinner will be ready soon!” Belle chirps as Killian and Emma walk through the front door of the old Tudor. “I found this mac and cheese recipe in one of the new cookbooks. It’ll probably be our cause of death, but hey, what a way to go - ”

“We’ve got company,” Emma finally cuts in, trying not to chuckle as Killian looks around the entryway with eyes comically wide, like he’s expecting a stack of broomsticks in a corner or something.

(To be fair, there is currently a broom in the corner where the stairs meet the wall, but it’s one of the plastic ones and there because Emma’s a bit of a slacker when it comes to cleaning.)

Belle rushes into the living room a moment later as Emma is still trying to motion to Killian to take off his shoes (technically, she could do it for him, but using magic on unsuspecting people who don’t deserve it is rude). She looks like some picture out of a misogynistic 1950’s Betty Crocker advertisement, with her heels and carefully coiffed hair and a damn apron, for fuck’s sake.

“Company?” she asks a little breathlessly - probably what running around in platform heels will do to you - “You didn’t mention company this morning.” And then, not nearly far enough under her breath to disguise the words, “You never have company.” It earns her a glare from Emma and an even more bewildered look from Killian.

“Yeah, well this wasn’t exactly planned.” Gesturing to the man in question, Emma continues into the introductions. “Killian Jones, my roommate Belle. Belle French, Killian Jones. We’re helping him.”

Belle furrows her brow. “We? I’d love to help, Emma, but I’m not sure how much I can do to help find your skips -”

“No, not that. Magic. We’re helping him with magic.”

That catches Belle off guard, sending them into several moments of shocked silence, only broken when Killian quietly offers, “If that’s okay with you…”

Belle finally snaps back to attention. “Oh! Yes, of course! Oh Emma, this will be such a good opportunity to finally use these powers to make a difference…”

And they’re off.

------

Elsa reacts similarly to Emma’s sudden pronouncement, and Regina is practically giddy over the phone at the opportunity to finally fucking do something (and someone really needs to talk to her about interacting with people, because this is not the way to go about it). By the time Belle has the goopy macaroni spooned into bowls, they’ve brought down every spell book they own and spread them across the kitchen table.

Belle full-out cries when Killian tells the story again, and Emma knows she’ll do anything to help, what with her tender Disney Princess heart. Elsa’s already pulled out a legal pad to write down all their ideas, and Emma’s actually feeling really confident about this. Regina’s proved particularly good at locating sleeping curses and antidotes (which is, frankly, a little alarming), so that’s what they decide to try first. They all agree to meet at the hospital two days later to test their first batch of potential solutions.

“I can’t tell you how much this means to me,” Killian tells Emma quietly before he leaves, standing by the door and trying clumsily to put his shoes back on while juggling the Tupperware containers of chocolate chip cookies and macaroni that Belle insisted on sending home with him.

It’s the wrong thing to say, at least if he wants a real answer, because Emma Swan has spent her life looking out for herself and never really learned how to react to others’ thanks. She thinks she manages to mutter out something along the lines of, “Yeah, whatever, no problem,” but honestly there’s no telling - she’s too busy shuffling her feet and not making eye contact to really pay attention. He must sense it, because his words change from sentimental to almost business-like.

“I’ll see you Thursday, then? The main lobby at City Hospital, 6pm?”

Emma nods, grateful for the change in subject. “We’ll be there.”

He almost manages a smile. “Wonderful.” And then he’s gone.

(It’s not quite relief that Emma feels at his departure, but Killian Jones just makes her feel off balance, so it’s not sorrow either.)

------

Liam Jones looks rough.

Emma isn’t quite sure what she expected—she is coming to see a comatose hospital patient, after all - but it’s shocking all the same. She can see such a strong resemblance between the two brothers, but his frame looks diminished from a month hooked up to wires and fed through tubes, cheeks hollow and frame slim with an unhealthy, sallow tint to his skin. She can see the hint of a curl in his sandy brown hair, but it’s lank and slicked back. Overall he has the look of a man barely clinging to life, a barely breathing corpse, and it brings what two days ago in the kitchen was a theoretical problem into horrifying reality.

Maybe it’s just the harsh fluorescent lighting inside the hospital, but Emma Swan can suddenly see how awful Killian looks too. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and his cheekbones stand out in stark relief, more gaunt than they ought to be (though Emma does suspect that he always has those handsome, defined cheekbones, but this seems excessive and unnatural). Clearly, the worry over his brother is taking its toll on him.

Killian still tries to stay cheerful, plumping the pillows of a man who can’t tell one way or another and chattering away about “all these lovely ladies come to see you, you lucky bastard!”, but Emma can tell his confidence is wavering.

It’s only now, here at the hospital, that Emma realizes exactly how out of their depth they all are, how out of place to boot. They’re all here at the behest of a man they barely know, trying to help a man they’ve never met. No matter how Emma looks at it, she feels like an imposter, and even worse, a bearer of false hope for a man they may already be too late to help. Killian is trying as hard as he can to bring normalcy to this situation by making one-sided introductions, but there’s an awkward and heavy cloud that hangs over the whole situation.

It’s Elsa who’s the ice breaker, surprisingly, walking up and taking Liam’s hand like he’s anyone else she’d greet in a meeting or on the street. Emma may have helped Elsa out into the world, but she’s still a retiring sort, shy and nervous about meeting new people. But she’s the one able to take the human, compassionate approach where the rest of them have fallen into the mistake of looking at Liam as a problem to be solved.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Liam,” she says in her soft, matter-of-fact voice. “We’re going to do everything we can to help you.”

And that’s enough to focus their attention and get everyone started.

Emma’s the first up, which is nerve wracking, but she’s the best at healing spells (way too much practice on herself), and they collectively decided that would be the first theory to try. Maybe, if they’re very lucky, this can be an easy fix, and Emma can sort out whatever is wrong with Liam’s brain the same way she would deal with a sprained ankle or broken ribs. Emma isn’t particularly hopeful, but looking over and seeing the trusting look in Killian’s eyes helps.

So she holds her hand over Liam’s forehead, gathers every ounce of concentration she possesses to collect the necessary magic from that well deep inside her, and releases it all at once. And yeah, it creates a nice little glow, but Emma can tell right away that it’s not going to work. She can already feel with her magic that there’s nothing to fix. She’s sure there’s better medical terms the doctors would use, but the closest she can describe it as is a feeling that his brain is stalled, or hibernating. She can help with some of the swelling, but Emma just knows, in a way that she can’t describe, that she can’t make him wake up.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to tell Killian with words about how she’s just failed; one look at her face, and what must be an incredibly guilty look, and he nods resignedly. “Thank you for trying,” he tells her, and that hurts almost as bad as her failure itself - the way he isn’t blaming her.

“We’ve got other things to try,” she adds, whether to remind him or herself still unclear.

And they do. Regina is already stepping forward with a list of spells to reverse sleeping curses, and Emma willingly passes the proverbial baton to allow the other woman a chance to try her solutions. A concentrated blast like she had just attempted is a pure burst of energy, and Emma welcomes the chance to slump into the nearby chair, no matter how uncomfortable, and take a moment to recuperate.

Emma has to admit - Regina is good at these complex spells, where each and every word has to be pronounced just so or it all goes awry. She’s also surprisingly gentle with their patient, brushing his hair back where a gust of magic must have tousled it, and Emma is surprised and gratified to realize that Regina must actually have a heart underneath that terrifying shell.

But even her skilled spellwork doesn’t do it. Liam Jones is still resolutely unconscious.

Back to the drawing board.

------

“I know technically it’s not a sleeping curse, but it’s not like magic is the most exact thing in the world,” Regina says, pacing the front room and blatantly contradicting her many soapbox speeches about how exact you have to be in magic and spellwork. “I was so sure it would work.”

She’s disappointed. They’re all disappointed. It had been heartbreaking to leave Killian with what was still only a shell of his brother, but they’d filed out one by one, Emma the last to leave.

“We’ll find something else that will work,” she says as confidently as she can muster.

“I believe in you,” he says. It’s funny how just those four words warm her heart. “But even if you can’t, I just want to thank you for everything you’ve tried. It’s a lot more than most would have done.”

(And damn if that doesn’t make her all the more determined to find a way to fix this.)

So they’re paging through the books again.

“There’s one here for ‘opening the mind’…” Belle uncertainly offers.

Emma shrugs in return. “Worth a shot. Can’t be any worse than that thing Elsa found about reversing a soul being trapped in the wrong body.”

They’ve made it through the obvious options - healing magic, sleeping curses - so the evening has been taken up by more outlandish suggestions. Light magic used in the wrong context doesn’t backfire, thankfully, so even their more absurd ideas won’t negatively impact Liam.

Emma has just shut one book and is about to open another when there’s a knock on the door. It’s late, nearly 9:30, and as far as Emma’s aware, they’re not expecting anyone (she’d been counting on it, actually, when she’d pulled on her fleece Mario pajama pants and an old t-shirt). But none of them are in the habit of just ignoring the door, so she hauls herself up off the old couch to find out what the hell this mystery person wants.

And (of fucking course) it’s Killian, standing there on the front porch holding a collection of Granny’s takeout bags like some sort of fried food fairy. And of course he looks bashful and adorable, while Emma’s in sloppy clothes and the glasses she never lets anyone see if she can help it. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“I, uh…” She can see his hand moving like he wants to scratch behind his ear, but he’s got too many bags and a tray of drinks to actually manage the maneuver. “I thought I’d buy you all some dinner as thanks for what you’re doing.”

Oh. That’s unexpected. Very sweet, but unexpected. “That’s, uh.... thanks. That’s nice of you.” She moves to take some of his load, and he gratefully hands her one of the stuffed bags. Emma can already smell the fried goodness, and she is so ready to eat (she may have forgotten to do so in the middle of all this research, a fact Killian undoubtedly knows somehow). Holding half the haul, she stands there, confused and with raised eyebrow, as the man on her porch makes no move to hand over the other half, and then some, of her dinner.

Seeing her questioning look, he smiles sheepishly. “I was hoping to maybe come in? Eat with you? I picked up something for myself as well.”

And suddenly, it clicks. He’s lonely, just like Emma used to be before witchcraft brought so many people into her life. He’d already said it; Liam is his entire world. And without Liam, he’s probably wondering what to do with himself. So she steps aside and lets him in the door.

“I hope it’s alright,” he says, “but I just went to the place down the street. They seemed to know everyone’s orders, so there wasn’t any guesswork.”

It’s more than alright. In fact, Emma’s switched her opinion and he’s clearly some sort of food bearing angel. The other ladies are in similar states of surprise and gratefulness - Regina earns a particularly baleful look for saying “Why are you here?” instead of a proper greeting - but dinner is a welcome distraction from their hours of research, and Emma is even convinced to give up part of her sprawl on the couch so the bearer of diner food can actually sit down. And then Granny is the saint, because the bags contain everyone’s favorites - some sort of salad and an iced tea for grease-phobic Regina; lasagna and a Reese’s milkshake for Elsa; a burger, loaded fries, and strawberry milkshake for Belle; and Emma’s classic grilled cheese, onion rings, and butterscotch shake. It’s just what they need to refresh their depleted energy, and offers a chance to step away for a few minutes and come back looking at things from a new perspective.

“Can I help?” he asks, halfway through his own bacon cheeseburger, and Emma can’t find any reason to say no. Especially not after he adds, “I’m surprisingly good at research.” This is an all hands on deck type of situation; another pair of eyes would be more than welcome for wading through stacks of dense text and Regina’s weird internet research.

He actually is pretty good at it, they find out. Killian Jones may not have a lick of magic in his entire body, but he’s got a knack for recognizing when some of the weirder wording might be applicable to their goal, like the “cleansing of the mind spell” that’s probably meant as a forgetting tactic or the “jolt of wakefulness” potion they could probably feed into his IV (and that Emma definitely wants to try on some of her stakeouts).

“Thank you for letting me be a part of something,” he tells her at the end of the night, his eyes hinting at meanings she’s not yet ready to understand. So she shrugs it off.

“We’re the ones who should be thanking you. You’re the one who brought us dinner, after all, and then stayed to keep looking at spellbooks. That’s not everyone’s idea of a good time.”

He smiles, a sad little thing. “Maybe not, but it’s an awful lot better than sitting at home, worrying about Liam and unable to do a damn thing.”

And she hates the confirmation that her suspicions were correct, that he’s lonely. But the good thing is, they can do something about the loneliness, because if Emma never had to be alone again after meeting her collection of witches, Killian won’t have to be either. Still, she tries to keep her words as nonchalant as possible. “Well, you’re welcome any time. Belle’s always looking for someone else to fuss over.”

He still smiles, like he can see right through her and knows Emma likes his presence too. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, in a final maneuver she thinks must be unplanned, if the way his ears turn bright red is anything to go by, he grabs her hand to press a kiss to its back. “Goodnight, Emma.”

And then he’s gone into the night, leaving Emma wondering what the hell just happened.

------

They’re back in the hospital again on Saturday, this time at a more decent hour. Liam Jones doesn’t look any better in the full light of day, and it’s with some alarm that Emma thinks he might be looking worse. She hopes it’s all in her head, that her eye has been prejudiced by the sight of all the hospital equipment, but she can’t help but remember what Killian had said - that the doctors decreed Liam would need a miracle. It’s absolutely crucial, imperative, that one of their attempts work.

Killian is still trying to keep the positive attitude on in front of Liam, but Emma can almost physically see the frayed edges of his optimism. “The lovely ladies are going to try a few more things, Liam,” he says, adjusting blankets. “So hold still, would you?”

There is some progress. The wakefulness potion is a dud, but the spell for opening the mind does increase brain activity, so Emma’s counting it as a slight victory. Even if Liam is still firmly unconscious, Killian is thrilled to see any change in his status. But unfortunately, they still end up having to leave again without finding a real solution.

It’s a pattern that continues over the next two and a half weeks. Emma, Elsa, Belle, and Regina spend every spare moment researching, and Killian will bring them food from various local restaurants or, on a few memorable nights, cook a meal (and Emma doesn’t even really like fish but damn if that baked whatever with the lemon sauce wasn’t the best thing she’s had all year). Schedule permitting, they visit Liam in the hospital every two or three days to test out new potential cures, some with more success than others - the potion for “opening one’s eyes” turned out to do literally that, which resulted in a still unconscious Liam staring at them with unseeing eyes until Killian carefully lowered his lids again.

Killian tries so hard to hold on to hope, but Emma can see the toll this has taken on him. He’s gotten progressively quieter, his shoulders more slumped, the determined fire in his eyes becoming dimmer and dimmer. The more she sees his optimism fade, the more her own determination grows, until she finds herself pushing to try some of the more risky solutions that the other women are hesitant about, because anything has got to be better than making Killian just watch his brother slip away.

“I don’t understand why you won’t try these things!” she argues one night.

“Well, we’re trying to cure Liam, not cause his demise,” Regina drawls, and somehow that only makes Emma’s anger burn hotter.

“And this is better?” she demands. “Sitting around, just hoping the right solution will fall into our laps? When it hasn’t in the past three weeks?”

Belle, as always, is a voice of reason. “I think if we end up moving into the riskier options, that’s a decision Killian should make, not you, Emma. If that’s what he wants, I’ll be more than happy to try.”

All eyes turn to Killian. He’s been especially quiet and downcast today, only picking at his sandwich and fries. That’s part of the reason Emma’s pushing especially hard for a change in tactics today - it hurts in a way she can’t explain to see Killian like this. But even with so many eyes on him, he just sits there quietly, rolling a French fry back and forth between his fingers and not responding.

“Well?” Emma prods. “What do you think?” If she can just sway him to give it a try, maybe they can make this better, and maybe she can put that smile back on his face, the one he gave her when they first started this endeavor and he was still excited and hopeful…

But something within Killian must break, as he stands up and mumbles something about needing fresh air before he stalks out of the room, the front door banging shut in the distance.

Regina offers her a disapproving look that is, honestly, probably deserved for her actions. “Great job, Emma. I’m sure it was absolutely helpful to piss off Jones when he’s the one whose favor you needed to win.”

Emma glares right back before exiting the room herself, following Killian out to the front stoop and sitting down at his side. He looks a mess, honestly; his hair is all mussed from running his hands through it, and she now finds him clutching his head like he’s trying to block out everything else that’s going on. They sit there for a few moments in silence - Emma gathering her thoughts, Killian seemingly suppressing them - before she finally finds her words.

“I’m sorry for pushing,” she says quietly into the night. “I know this is all your decision, and you shouldn’t do anything that you think isn’t what’s best for Liam -”

“It’s not that,” he says, flapping a hand to wave off her concerns. “I appreciate all you’re doing, really. It’s just…” He trails off, head dropping again before he finally turns back to her and completes his sentence, so quiet she has to strain to hear. “The doctors told me today that if Liam doesn’t show marked improvement by the two month mark, the middle of next week, that he probably won’t ever. And then, I’ll have to seriously consider letting him go.”

Killian’s quiet explanation leaves Emma feeling like there’s suddenly ice running through her veins instead of blood. It’s been obvious from day one how important this is, but now they will have to contend with the fact that they’re running out of time. There’s no words she can say to fix the situation; she can’t even begin to imagine what Killian is going through. All Emma can offer is to take his hand and squeeze it gently, simply offering the comfort of not being alone.

“I don’t know what to do, Swan,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to lose him, but if we don’t do anything, it’ll still happen.” There’s a heavy pause, as he once again stares off into the darkness, lost in his thoughts, before he finds the words to continue. “I trust you, Emma, and I trust your magic. Do you think the best chance to save Liam is in some of these riskier options?”

She’d suggested it out of desperation, but the truth is, she does. They’ve gone through all the obvious and safe answers, so if they’re going to save Killian’s brother, they’re going to have to step outside their comfort zone, try other options.

So she takes a deep breath, gathers all her courage, and replies in as confident a voice as she can muster:

“I do.”

------

Regina and the others take the new direction somewhat better when the marching orders are coming from the man any issues would most affect. There’s still quite a few mentions of “If you’re sure…” but that’s more or less expected, and they continue on all the same.

They’ve really had to get creative now. It’s not entirely unexpected that they start looking for spell combinations that might work in tandem where they’d be ineffective alone, but Belle also starts dabbling in writing new ones herself, taking the useful parts of several different incantations and somehow mashing them together. It takes a skill with languages that Emma frankly doesn’t possess, but she thinks the results ought to be effective, and Belle gets excited talking about the potential for publication if any of them work.

Each of their next several tries is still woefully ineffective. Liam is stubbornly unresponsive, and all the attempts just result in utter exhaustion on everyone’s part. Killian tells Emma over and over how much he appreciates their efforts, her efforts, that he’ll remember that regardless, but they’re all tired and desperate and it’s not working.

Until it does.

It works. It finally all works. Emma is so relieved, she doesn’t have the words to properly describe it. Killian’s belief in her may never have wavered, but Emma’s faith in herself certainly had, and the last days had been plagued with the panic that maybe she wouldn’t be able to save Liam Jones after all, that she’d be forced to disappoint Killian and his beautiful hope. But they succeed.

She’s right, too; solution that ultimately works is so far outside the box that it’s a miracle in itself that they were able to devise its steps. The easiest way Emma can think of it is as the human equivalent of turning the computer off and then back on again: Elsa freezes his brain in stasis for protection, Belle enacts a complicated spell for removing the soul from the body in a shining ball of light before reaffixing it as Regina shocks his heart with a burst of magic like defibrillator paddles. Then Emma’s left to send another glow of healing magic as Elsa removes the freeze, the whole thing topped by a kiss from Killian to his brother’s sleeping forehead - a True Love’s Kiss. It’s a cheesy measure, one that makes Regina roll her eyes, but Belle had argued that it couldn’t hurt.

And it hadn’t. There’s not some ridiculous blast of rainbow light or anything, but the moment Killian’s lips touch Liam’s brow, Emma feels the world settle in a way she can’t quite explain but attributes to magic, to things setting to rights again, to a sleeping soul breathing a sigh of relief.

It’s not like the movies. Liam doesn’t gasp and sit up in bed, eyes flying open in a cinematically dramatic moment. But he squeezes Killian’s hand where it clasps his, and that’s enough to signify drastic improvement.

“Liam?” he asks, so hopefully, and while the elder Jones may still be unconscious, they all watch as his hand tightens around Killian’s. It’s conscious movement at last, and with that realization, the room becomes jubilant, exploding in a chorus of cheers.

There’s hugging and smiling and they may all be tired but Elsa lets out a little joyful screech, and it’s probably a miracle they’re not all kicked out. Somehow, Emma finds herself in Killian’s arms, and he’s smiling that smile again and there are tears in both their eyes and his face is just so close—

—and she kisses him.

It’s not planned, not at all, but her lips meet his and he’s kissing her right back, and God, she could get lost in this if not for the fact—

—if not for the fact that he’s only doing this because she saved his brother.

It’s like a bucket of cold water, that realization, and Emma steps back with wide, horrified eyes to find Killian looking at her with an unfocused gaze.

“Swan—” he begins, but Emma’s not willing to hear where that sentence ends - hear the excuses and the apologies and the buts. Almost before she knows it, she’s backing away until she’s out the door and into the hallway.

And then, Emma Swan runs.

------

She knows she’s really fucked up when even Elsa comments about her desperate exit.

“I know I’m not one to comment on others’ love lives,” she says, “but that was quite harsh, Emma. We might know about all your… let’s say struggles with dating, but the poor boy was just left there in a daze without any idea why you had booked it out of there.”

Emma really hates the picture that puts in her head, of a sad Killian just standing there with that stunned look on his face melting into confusion and disappointment. There’s a shock of guilt that accompanies that vision, but she does her best to push it aside. It was a moment of weakness on both their parts; it didn’t actually mean anything. Killian was undoubtedly just so happy that something had finally worked, which led him to reciprocate… whatever Emma’s excuse is. She’s still not entirely sure. Anyways, it was surely just a one-time thing. Her usefulness to him is effectively over, now that Liam is firmly on the road to recovery; they likely won’t ever cross paths again, now that there’s not any real reason for them to.

Of course, that’s not strictly true. Emma may not be having anything to do with the Jones brothers, and Regina is not enough of a people person to willingly pursue any further friendship without measurable advantage to herself, but Elsa and Belle are much better people who still stop by the hospital with dinner and check up on how both men are doing. It’s how Emma gets updates on Liam’s condition - how he finally opened his eyes and properly woke up two days after their breakthrough, how he’s still tired and healing and a bit out of it, but how the doctors expect him to make a full recovery, against all odds. By all accounts, he’s starting to get antsy, and Emma hopes he’ll be allowed home soon for both men’s sake.

“He asks about you, you know,” Belle contributes, and Emma can’t even pretend to not know who she’s talking about. “Whenever we walk in the room, he perks up for a moment until he realizes you haven’t come with us. Really, Emma, you’re being ridiculous.”

And she probably is. She definitely is. But she can’t get over the fear that Killian isn’t really interested in her, just in what she can do.

The weeks pass by. Elsa and Belle keep inviting her to the hospital, insisting Liam wants to meet her and Killian would just love to see her, but Emma dodges and avoids and works more hours, just to have an excuse not to go.

(She’d tried Mary Margaret at first, who had relished spending more time with Emma until she realized it was an emotional avoidance ploy. And then she’d flatly refused to be a part of it.)

At the end of the month, Liam gets to go home to the apartment he and Killian apparently share, and Emma gets to hear all about it. Elsa and Liam have apparently taken a liking to one another, which has resulted in even more visits and even more updates on all things Jones Brothers and the promise of an actual date once Liam’s well enough to drive them both to a nice restaurant. Emma’s happy for her friend, she truly is - Elsa deserves the world, after everything she’s been through - but it really throws a wrench in Emma’s plans to just never see Killian Jones again. If his brother and her roommate start dating, it’s a little inevitable that their paths will cross eventually, for better or worse.

Their latest ploy - ok, it’s not a ploy, but each invite Emma has to dodge feels like an individual attack on her resolve in some larger evil plan, so she’s sticking with ploy - is a welcome home party for Liam. Emma declines, almost out of habit now - she’ll find work or something to occupy herself, give herself a plausible excuse. The thing is, if she was to show up, it probably wouldn’t be that big a deal. They’d all talk and laugh and have a good time. Elsa’s trying to figure out what flavors of ice cream she’ll bring, and there’s sure to be cake. But Emma’s a wuss, and she might have feelings for Jones, hesitant as she is to admit it. She’s not sure she could take it if she spends an entire night in his company where he treats her as nothing more than a friend or, even worse, some sort of business associate. So she’ll stay home instead, thank you very much.

And she does have plans. They just involve executing a honeytrap on the latest jumper instead of socializing at some party. The problem is, those plans don’t last nearly as long as she anticipates, and Emma finds herself back home at the Tudor much sooner than she planned, sporting a number of scrapes from where she had to tackle her man to the ground outside the coffee shop. She’s barely limped inside and taken off her shoes, flipping through the mail in the kitchen, before she hears the awful dramatic doorbell that some relative of Elsa’s had installed God-only-knows when. Groaning audibly, she hauls herself downstairs again and throws the door open much more forcibly than she really needs to. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for whatever pitch this is,” she begins, fully ready to give whatever door-to-door salesman is bothering her a piece of her mind—

—only to find one Killian Jones standing on her doorstep.

The guilt hits her immediately as his face shifts through sheepishness to shock and then on to anger.

“You are avoiding me!” he accuses, and it takes every bit of willpower Emma possesses not to physically flinch at the words. Even if they are true. “I thought I’d come check on you tonight when you didn’t show, and thought I’d find you sick or working, or any reasonable excuse, but you’re flat-out avoiding me!”

His anger hurts, somewhat, and makes her feel guilty, but at the same time, those are fighting words. And Emma Swan has never been one to back down from a fight. Defenses raised, she shoots back with all the vitriol she can muster, “So what if I am? Most people would get the hint, or figure there’s a reason.”

“Well, as the one being avoided, I think I have a right to know the reason!” he demands, before softening once again, seemingly suddenly aware of his tone. “Look, Emma, it’s just… we kissed. And I thought it was a pretty good kiss,” he adds bashfully, scratching behind his ear in that way Emma has always secretly found adorable. “But then you just… ran off. And have conveniently not shown hide nor hair ever since. Did I do something wrong?” By the end, he’s almost painfully earnest, and Emma feels that knife of guilt dig just that little bit deeper. She still needs to stand strong, to protect herself from heartbreak, but there’s no reason for her to hurt him in the process, so she finally shakes her head, all the while avoiding his eyes.

“What then?” he asks, as gently as the situation allows. “Because I’m observant, Swan, and this? This is avoiding me.”

There’s a pause. A great, big, heavy pause. How do you tell a person the fears of your heart, when the greatest fear in your heart is letting anyone in?

He plows on, nonetheless, in the face of her silence. “I like you, you know?” he says softly, scratching behind his ear again, a tell-tale nervous tic. “I don’t know if that kiss meant something to you, but it did to me. Because I think you’re brilliant and fierce and… I like you.”

“You just like the magic,” Emma mutters. She can tell the moment her words process in his mind because he suddenly stares at her like she’s grown a second head.

“You think I just like you because you can wield magic?” he asks incredulously. He almost looks insulted, oddly enough, and it takes Emma somewhat aback. “Emma, that’s… that’s ridiculous, really. You really thought I only valued your company for what you can do, and not who you are? I mean, maybe at first…” he runs his hand through his hair in frustration, and she’d almost think it was cute, if she wasn’t anxiously waiting for his next words. “But then I got to know you, Swan, and you were much more than that. So brave, and determined, and… honestly, anyone who’s only interested in you for your magic is an idiot, love. You’re so much more than that. Well, and you treat it like some kind of bloody ridiculous hobby instead of the power it probably could be.” Killian laughs at his own joke, and Emma cracks into a slight smile too, unable to resist the sound. “But no, Swan, I find you fascinating for many, many reasons, and your magic is the very least of them.”

Tentatively, Emma meets his eyes, seeking confirmation. “Yeah?”

He doesn’t disappoint, smiling and nodding back at her with a chuckle. “Aye. You’re a marvel, Emma Swan.” His smile is so wide, so full of hope and truth, that try as she might, Emma can’t find a reason to doubt him.

She’s never been good at this part of relationships - making the first move when things are still so tentative and unsure. But she can sense that Killian’s nervous too, can practically feel it rolling off him in waves, and that gives her an unexpected boost of confidence. This doesn’t have to be like magic, be precise and exact or the whole thing will fall apart and your nose probably will turn green. It doesn’t matter how either one of them approaches this, just that they do.

So Emma gathers all the courage she can muster, and steps forward to catch his lips with hers, creating a different kind of magic altogether.

It’s a little bit fanciful (okay, a lot a bit fanciful), but Emma can’t help but feel like there’s an energy that flows between her body and his, between her soul and his, as their lips move together - at first softly and gently, but then deeper, stronger, more passionate as lips open and tongues caress and they both lose themselves in the special magic of a first kiss. Some might call it fate, or soulmates; Emma’s not quite ready to call it anything yet.

(But she very well might be some day, perhaps sooner than she thinks.)

They’re both breathing heavily when they finally separate, foreheads still touching as if connected by invisible threads.

“That was…” he begins, a smile creeping over his face.

Emma quickly interrupts. “If you say magical, I swear to God, I’ll smack you, don’t think I won’t.” She tries to look stern, but honestly, her kiss-swollen lips and mussed hair from where Killian had slipped his hand into her curls probably ruin that illusion.

“Of course not, darling,” he good-naturedly replies with a smile and what she suspects is a suppressed laugh. “Who am I to challenge a witch?”

------

Killian Jones has no magic to speak of.

But he’s a great cook and patient with all the chaos only a house full of witches can conjure up - not to mention, a damn good kisser - so Emma’s more than willing to overlook that fact.

Magic and Killian don’t always mix - he’s particularly not a fan of how Emma sets off the magical equivalent of firecrackers under their bed for April Fool’s Day - but overall, he’s so casual about the whole topic that Emma wants to laugh at herself for believing even for a second that he’d have a problem with any of it.

Things change, of course. Their relationship strengthens and solidifies and eventually relocates to their own place when Elsa decides they could all use a bit more privacy (especially since things have gotten serious between the elder Jones and herself), but their relationship is the constant. That little corner within Emma that hosts her magic simultaneously boils and settles every time she and Killian are together.

Killian Jones couldn’t perform a spell if he tried. But sometimes, curled into his side in bed and feeling her heart glow with happiness as he pulls her just that little bit closer, Emma Swan thinks he possesses his own magic all the same, one born of the feelings they share for one another.

And that’s a witchcraft more powerful than any spellbook.

#cssns #cs ff #my writing #the prickly witch's guide to magic #cs au #witch!Emma

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allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 · 6 years

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The Prickly Witch’s Guide to Magic

—a Captain Swan witch!au fic by @shireness-says for @cssns

tumblr., AO3

Here is the artwork I made for @shireness-says story, The Prickly Witch’s Guide to Magic. This fic is great, you guys. Lots of emotions. You can read the fic here on tumblr. or on AO3 at the links above.

Go give her story some love, and the mods of @cssns—@kmomof4, @winterbaby89, and @katie-dub.

#cssns #captain swan supernatural summer #cs art #cs ff #cs au #cs fic rec #witch!Emma #captain swan #the prickly witch's guide to magic #shireness-says #kayla's pic edits #my pic edits #kayla's aesthetics #my aesthetics

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ventureswithbooks · 3 years

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“Love is the most powerful magic. Above all else, remember that. It will always guide you where you need to go.” - Kingdom of the Wicked . . 🌟QOTD: do you have a favorite/lucky number? What is it? . . Hello friends and happy Friday!! Whelp I’m back home in the 50 degree weather and while I’m sad it’s also super nice to be home!! Ever since I was younger I also loved the number 13....call me crazy but it was my lucky number!! Something about witches always called to me so when one of my favorite authors announced she was writing a book about witches I was in heaven!!! Kingdom of the Wicked was definitely one of my favorite reads from last year and I am soooooo excited for Kingdom of the Cursed this year!!! I hope everyone has a wonderful Friday!! . . #MyFandomObsessionsMay21 - Cesari’s book + snack #readingintheweb - cactus: prickly characters #bookishbellesmay21 - #flatlayfriday #allthebooksmay21 - weekend reading . . #kingdomofthewicked #kerrimaniscalco #kotw #witchyreads #thenovl #jimmypatterson #tbrpile #biblio #booksonbooks #bookclubs #avidreader #readingismagic #instareading #booksharks #bookaesthetic #bookishlife #bookaholics #bookwormproblems #homelibrary #booksoninstagram #bookchallenge #bookstagramit #bookshelves #rainbowbooks https://www.instagram.com/p/COkz6FJLk3i/?igshid=q485bx1fnc7l

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enekorre · 3 years

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Tag 9 people you want to get to know better 💖

Tagged by: @thenoaidi Tack! :D

Favorite colour: Yellow! It reminds me of happiness and the sun. I miss the sun. I also really like to pair it with either purple or green. Yellow/purple is my favourite combo, but yellow/green is summery and happiness and reminds me of laying inside a juniper tree (they're prickly unless you know what you're doing) one summer at school. It also reminds me of the fields and forests here. Everything is so grey this time of year, it gets me really down.

Currently reading: I'm one of those people who read a ton as a kid, and then suddenly found themselves unable to read. Because of that, I'm currently reading 4 books (I havent touched any of them in a long time). Oldest is the first Raven Cycle book. I got a few chapters in. Next one the list is You will get through this night by Dan Howell. Yes, I mainly bought it for nostalgia (watched Dan's vids as a teen/kid), but also because a self help guide seemed like a good idea. I could probably really use it right now, tbh. Haven't been feeling well for quite a while. Next I have 2 books that maybe shouldn't even be on this list, because I only bought them at the end of october, and I haven't actually started them. One is Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik (Of AO3 founder fame). I really really really loved Temeraire, and I recognized the fannishness of the writing in Uprooted (while reading Temeraire I didn't know she was Astolat, even though book 8 is very much amnesia fic lol). Because it reminded me of fandom I needed to look her up and lo and behold, she has played a big part in my online life without either of us being aware of it. (If you like dragon go read Temeraire. Most libraries will probably have it. They are So Good.) The last book is the third in a series, where I've read the last two previously. It's The winter of the witch by Kathrene Arden. The first two were really good, lots of fun Russian folklore!

Last series: Not sure is Critical role counts, so Midnight Mass. It was really good, and gave a realistic portrayal of people, good and bad. But it is set in a very Christian town and the first half of the whole show had me hissing in discomfort. If you have some sort of trauma/beef with Christianity be aware of that before starting to watch.

Last movie: Hmm... It might have been Dr. Doolittle? I had two friends over, and one of them wanted to watch it. It was a fun time, very much a movie for the whole family. Kinda made me feel like when I was a kid, hoping magic was real.

Sweet, savoury or spicy: I like all three, but I'm a sucker for sweet. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't use snuff, I don't drink coffee... But candy, that's my addiction. I can easily eat several kilos of candy in a day. If I have some at home I usually can't stop myself. The only way past it is simply not buying any. That way, if the night is young and I want some, I at least get a walk in before stuffing my face.

Craving: Recently I've been having issues with eating enough, and in general liking food has never been my thing. So as to not be boring and just say candy, I'm gonna as my grandparents cooking. As a kid I also had issues with food (someone really should have figured out I was autistic a log time ago), but at my grandparents place I would stuff myself. I think one reason is that they make everything from scratch, and another is that they actually season their stuff properly. I'm okay with stuff that doesn't taste, and I'm also okay with really spicy stuff. But everything that in-between, that just kinda tastes, it's really just ewwww to me. I can force myself to eat, but not much and I always feel like it got stuck in my throat afterwards.

Currently working on: Learning to crochet. My sister is having a baby (unplanned, and she's young, and I dislike the dad, so that's one reason to my bad mental health currently), and I want to make stuff for it when it comes out. I'm gonna be the best aunt ever and love the baby very much. So far I've made a tiny duck, but it's really tiny, and so my mom suggested i make one of those hanging mobile things. That way, I can make more in different shapes, and they wont go to waste.

I tag... Hmm...

@thefollow-spot, @acindra, @comp-lady @seriously-a-dragon @yharnamsnewslug, @perskuiskaaja @punalippulaiva and uuuh anyone who sees this and feels they wanna do it!

Also, people tagged, no need to do it if you don't want too :D

#m #man this got loooong #ask game

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wiisagi-maiingan · 5 years

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Do you know anything about the Harry Potter controversy surrounding Rowling's American wizarding school Ilvermony, where the school's houses and backlore supposedly havr ties to indigenous history? This probably sounds like utter gibberish if you don't know anything about it, sorry about that. I was hoping for some possible clarification, I'm not educated enough about either topic to understand the problems there.

HOO BOY, ANON, YOU HAVE STUMBLED ON SOMETHING THAT ABSOLUTELY INFURIATES ME.

I’m going to start this out with a disclaimer. I love Harry Potter and the HP universe; it’s even one of my oldest special interests and has been a hugely important part of my life and my development as a person.

With that being said, Rowling is absolute shit at putting decent representation in her books and she needs to stay 5,000,000 miles away from Native people.

The most obvious issue with Ilvermorny is the mascots; every single house is represented with a spirit from indigenous cultures. The Thunderbird is common in numerous Turtle Island tribes and is actually an extremely important figure in my own culture, to the point where it’s on my nation’s flag. Pukwudgies are creatures from Delaware and Wampanoag beliefs. The Wampus cat is from South Eastern Native folklore, particularly Cherokee. Horned Serpents, like Thunderbirds, are found in a lot of Native cultures, particularly those in the Southeast and by the Great Lakes.

These are all sacred spirits in their respective cultures and having a white British woman use them as mascots in her white, settler school is extremely insulting. Which brings me to my next issue.

The story of Ilvermorny starts with a Pukwudgie, a Native spirit, becoming indebted to an Irish settler:

“The Pukwudgie now declared himself bound to serve her until he had an opportunity to repay his debt. He considered it a great humiliation to be indebted to a young witch foolish enough to wander around in a strange country, where Pukwudgies or Hidebehinds might have attacked her at any moment, and her days were now filled with the Pukwudgie’s grumbling as he trudged along at her heels.”

Which is fucking gross, lbr. This Pukwudgie then goes on to introduce this European woman to a whole fucking bunch of sacred spirits who just adore her for some reason. She could even understand the Horned Spirit because she’s ~special~

“William began to introduce Isolt to the magical creatures with which he was familiar. They took trips together to observe the frog-headed Hodags hunting, they fought a dragonish Snallygaster and watched newborn Wampus kittens playing in the dawn.

Most fascinating of all to Isolt, was the great horned river serpent with a jewel set into its forehead, which lived in a nearby creek. Even her Pukwudgie guide was terrified of this beast, but to his astonishment, the Horned Serpent seemed to like Isolt. Even more alarming to William was the fact that she claimed to understand what the Horned Serpent was saying to her.

Isolt learned not to talk to William about her strange sense of kinship with the serpent, nor of the fact that it seemed to tell her things. She took to visiting the creek alone and never told the Pukwudgie where she had been. The serpent’s message never varied: ‘Until I am part of your family, your family is doomed.’”

(She named the Pukwudgie William. Because of course she did.)

This Irish woman, alongside her adopted European settler sons, founded Ilvermorny and decided on the “mascots” of the house without any input from Native peoples.

Then, it gets even worse. Because the Horned Serpent that Isolt could magically communicate with gave her its own horn to turn into a wand for her son.

“The Horned Serpent was waiting there for her. It raised its head exactly as it had done in her dream, she took part of its horn, thanked it, then returned to the house and woke James, whose skill with stone and wood had already beautified the family cottage.

When Chadwick woke next day, it was to find a finely carved wand of prickly ash enclosing the horn of the serpent. Isolt and James had succeeded in creating a wand of exceptional power.”

The next students of the school were from the Wampanoag and Narragansett tribes, and the school continued to grow with both European and Native students. There is no mention of why these children were suddenly being sent to a European school instead of being taught by their tribes, which clearly must’ve been the practice prior to Ilvermorny’s founding.

I also need to seriously stress that there is a very horrific history around Native children being sent to European-run schools, particularly boarding schools. This is a trauma in our communities, not something for a white European woman to use as a plot point in her shitty lore.

Now. Let’s move away from Ilvermorny because it gets even worse when we take a look at Rowling’s History of Magic in North America, particularly the Fourteenth Century – Seventeenth Century article..

In the second paragraph, Rowling immediately makes a statement about Native communities.

“In the Native American community, some witches and wizards were accepted and even lauded within their tribes, gaining reputations for healing as medicine men, or outstanding hunters. However, others were stigmatised for their beliefs, often on the basis that they were possessed by malevolent spirits.”

Now, this isn’t inherently bad, but we need to keep this statement in mind when we take a look at the next paragraph.

“The legend of the Native American ‘skin walker’ – an evil witch or wizard that can transform into an animal at will – has its basis in fact. A legend grew up around the Native American Animagi, that they had sacrificed close family members to gain their powers of transformation. In fact, the majority of Animagi assumed animal forms to escape persecution or to hunt for the tribe. Such derogatory rumours often originated with No-Maj medicine men, who were sometimes faking magical powers themselves, and fearful of exposure.”

First of all, what the fuck? “[. . .] No-Maj medicine men, who were sometimes faking magical powers themselves, and fearful of exposure.” I shouldn’t have to explain why this statement is absolutely disgusting, but I’m going to anyway. Medicine Men are among the absolute most important people in any Native community. They are revered and respected spiritual leaders, vital to the running of the tribe and the main reason why we as Native people have any bits of our spirituality and religions left. And Rowling essentially called them con artists and liars.

And the idea that sk*nwalkers are just regular Animagi that those ~evil savage Medicine Men~ spread ~nasty rumors~ about is just as disgusting. It is literally rewriting Najavo folklore to make actual Native people look like liars and bigots who are just persecuting those poor misunderstood sk*nwalkers :(((

The article ends with discussions of wands, emphasizing that even though Native peoples had been doing perfectly fine without them and that wandless magic is typically seen as something incredibly powerful, Native people still needed em. In the Ilvermorny article, it’s specifically mentioned that the Native students receive wands made by the Irish woman and her family.

In the other articles about North America, Native people are mentioned exactly twice, once to mention that tribes would take in their “European brethren” and again when discussing a Choctaw woman making wands with Thunderbird feather cores.

“Shikoba Wolfe, who was of Choctaw descent, was primarily famous for intricately carved wands containing Thunderbird tail feathers (the Thunderbird is a magical American bird closely related to the phoenix). Wolfe wands were generally held to be extremely powerful, though difficult to master. They were particularly prized by Transfigurers.”

Sorry, correction; *a woman of Choctaw descent.

So. Tldr; Rowling is fucking racist and I am going to physically fight her with my bare hands.

#long post #harry potter #ilvermorny #indigenous #ndn #representation #Anonymous

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canonloveinterest · 3 years

Text

New SI what’s up. He's dungeons and dragons flavored.

Jean (jeen, not zhawn) - male (he/him) - mid to late 20s - rogue (inquisitive subclass) + witch (5e homebrew) multiclass

Half the time: chipper, “perky goth” trope. Caring, empathetic, and patient. Seems sort of shy and quiet but winds up being somewhat chatty once he warms up. Very much a customer service/communications persona.

The other half: bitter, sarcastic, a little prickly. Closes off and becomes hostile. Seems low empathy but really has trouble emoting and performing empathy and compassion when low on spoons.

This attitude slips through sometimes during times of stress or feeling unwell (which is more often than he’d prefer), and can be a little off putting to people who don’t know him all that well.

Wears rather large headphones most of the time, that are connected to his phone via Bluetooth or to his crappy old mp3. He is usually moving around very slightly to whatever he’s listening to. The classic lil goth-punky kid head bop is a constant.

Works a program at the local library which offers art classes on Monday and Wednesday evenings (Monday is for adults/seniors, Wednesday is for youths), as well as what is effectively a guided art therapy program on Sunday morning. Mostly it’s all just supervising and showing people how to use the materials and then letting them off on their own art adventure with vague instructions on how to create with purpose and tap into core emotional reserves. He’s technically just an aide/assistant working under a real professional, but he’s thinking of going to college for it and “really sticking to it this time”.

Dresses kinda corp goth at work - appropriate enough to not draw any scorn from the senior citizens or parents of children attending. He’s more intense on days off, but still much more casual and laid back than... some people.

Jean recently has been living with his grandmother (Nanny, or more often, Nan) at her house after being overwhelmed by family dysfunction led to a very intense and very public nuclear meltdown in the middle of a restaurant. This caused his more immediate family members (parents, aunts, uncles) to “strongly suggest he leave the family home”. Nan takes him in without hesitation, saying that she was “high spirited” at his age too -- a favor which Jean tries to repay by doing as much housework and repairs as she’ll allow him to.

Nan is a witch in the traditional sense (having a familiar, herbalism, divination, sigilism, reading bones) and Jean picks up a decent amount through visiting her in his childhood or hanging around a lot as a teen/adult. (Magic can both be learned through study or be innate; the route one takes in learning and harnessing magic, as well as the mechanics of it, is what sets wizards and witches apart. Ask me about my d&d homebrew google doc.) Nanny also regularly has card nights with her friends, resulting in the very endearing visual of a bunch of cute little old people smoking cigars and drinking around the dinner table.

Somehow, Jean always knows so fucking much dirt on everyone and all the past and present local goings-on. He will lord it over people if they’re the right person looking for the right info. But he purposely lies by omission and obfuscates the truth just enough to preserve anonymity/dignity while still making the person asking happy enough that it doesn’t bite him in the ass. Can often be quoted as saying “I heard this rumor that [...]” or “apparently, [...]”. He never uses any names or specifics in these stories. He’s also in the habit of lowering the volume of his headphones or not listening to anything at all in order to eavesdrop.

Whether this all makes him more or less of a dirtbag is up for interpretation.

Jean takes his gaggle of younger cousins and some of their school friends to Fairyland on their summer vacation, in an attempt to curry favor with the family. (His dad suggested he make a peace offering. His aunt suggested he make himself useful for once by getting the kids out of the house.) He winds up striking conversation with the guy working the control booth of the Hell’s Mouth roller coaster while waiting for the kids, but doesn’t ask for his number or online handles or anything until the guy is off the clock and he can be sure that he’s not being conversational out of employee obligation.

#oc: Jean #i know #I Know #picrew maker. I'll draw him later tonight maybe.

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foursideharmony · 4 years

Text

The Cat, The Prince, and the Doorway to Imagination (Chapter 2)

Summary: The adventure gets underway.

Pairings: Platonic/familial LAMP/CALM, Platonic/familial DLAMPR

Content Warnings: None so far

Word Count: 2235

Read on AO3: here

Patton's eyes were huge. “The Narnia? With the talking animals and wholesome religious subtext?”

“That's the place,” said Roman. “I mean...I dialed back a little on the religious subtext, since that can be kind of a touchy subject. But Patton, there will be as many talking animals as you want.”

“So how is this going to work?” asked Virgil. “We're the main characters? Will you tell us what to do next?”

“I won't have to!” said Roman. “It's literally just the plot of the first book. All we have to do is go through the major story beats! We'll pick things up at the point where all four Pevensies go through the wardrobe together and meet up with the Beavers, and—”

“Whoa, slow down, Pagemaster. I hate to bust your bubble, but I don't actually remember much about the story.”

“Nor I,” said Logan. “It has been quite some time since Thomas either read the book or watched any of the film adaptations, and in the interim I have grown...” He trailed off, blinking, and then pulled a thin stack of index cards out of his jeans pocket and thumbed through them until he found the one he wanted. “...'fuzzy' on the details.”

“You needed a vocab card for 'fuzzy?'” asked Roman. “Never mind. Don't worry about not being fully up to speed—it's a pretty simple adventure story, and Patton and I can give—”

“Actually...” Patton said, sheepishly raising his hand like a schoolchild, “...I don't really remember much about the story either. I always get distracted by the talking animals and wholesome religious subtext.”

Roman stuck his tongue into his cheek for a moment, considering. Then he brightened. “Even better! This way I'll be able to surprise all three of you! And who knows—maybe it will all come back to you as we go along. So is everyone ready?”

They affirmed that they were.

“Oh. One more thing, before we go in. Stories in the Imagination can take on a life of their own. You might find yourself having...odd impulses, ideas that you're not used to. That's the story, trying to nudge you in a particular direction. It's best to just go along with it. Remember that it's a story for kids, there will be a happy ending, and we're all friends.”

Virgil's eyes widened and he took a breath to speak, but Patton cut in: “I trust you, Roman.” Virgil let out the breath and bit back his protest.

Roman smiled. “Follow me, everyone. And try not to be too alarmed by anything we might encounter...”

They stepped into the wardrobe. Almost at once, a chilly breeze, tasting of snow and pine, fluttered past them and swirled around to tug the doors closed. “Don't worry, that was supposed to happen,” Roman said in a breathless half-whisper. “Head toward the light.” And indeed, as their eyes adjusted to the darkened, fur-lined interior of the wardrobe, they became able to perceive a cool light in the distance, opposite where they had entered. They went for it, pushing and stumbling through the rows of coats, gasping with startled...delight?...when the soft fur gave way to prickly conifer branches, and snow crunched underfoot, and finally blinking in the soft glow of a forest in deep winter.

Roman had gone all out. It was a world of white and blue-gray, the snow caked so thickly that only here and there was a hint of brown bark or green needle visible, and even these colors were muted. The only sounds, apart from the ones the Sides had brought with them, were the soughing of the breeze and the occasional patter of ice crystals from a distant tree branch. And it was cold—so much so that the first thing any of them did, apart from stare agape at the frozen landscape, was Virgil retreating a few yards into the grove they had emerged from and returning with four of the fur coats. He kept one and handed the rest to Patton for distribution.

“See, Virgil?” Roman said, his voice sounding oddly hollow as the snow and wind swallowed it. “You're getting the hang of this story already.”

“Less talk, more...whatever you have planned,” Virgil said, wrapping himself in black rabbit. “Let's get going before we all freeze our...toes off.”

“Hold up...where's Logan?” asked Patton.

“Over here,” came Logan's calm voice from a couple dozen yards away. He was starkly visible as a dark spot against the snow, standing perfectly motionless, huddled into himself and shivering slightly as he stared at the thing that had prompted him to drift away from the group.

“I remember this now,” he said as the others approached. “Come to think of it, it may be part of why I retained so little about the book in the first place. I mean...it's patently ridiculous. What fuels it? There are no gas lines in a wild forest.”

“If you must know...friendly spite,” said Roman.

“That warrants a fuller explanation,” said Logan, accepting a coat from Patton.

“Well,” Roman said, waving the group along, “C.S. Lewis, the author, was great friends with the almighty J.R.R. Tolkien, who told him in rather absolutist terms that you couldn't write about a fantasy world and put a lamppost in it. To which Lewis replied—I'm paraphrasing here—'Oh yeah, homes? Watch me'—and created this delightful world of Narnia, with that lamppost as a signature feature. True story. If nothing else, you have to admire his saucy rebel spirit.”

“I fail to see how that translates into a viable, inexhaustible fuel supply.”

“Aw, Logan!” Patton chirped. “It's a magic lamp in a magic forest! That's all it needs to glow forever!”

“See? Patton gets it!”

“Ease up a little on the noise, guys,” said Virgil. “Anything could be stalking us in this place. Roman, where are we even going?”

“It's not so much where we're going as what we're going to encounter. I condensed this part of the story somewhat and—”

“SHH!” Virgil hissed emphatically, pulling up short and throwing his arms out to the sides to stop the others as well. “I heard something in the bushes,” he muttered. “I told you we were being followed. Nobody move until we know what we're dealing with.”

There came a short whistling sound from a patch of shubbery, and a low, dark shape darted out, heading away from them through the brush, muttering in an almost human fashion as it went. Patton's eyes grew enormous. “Talking animal!” he cooed, and immediately gave chase. “Wait up, critter! We won't hurt you!”

“Patton, no!” Virgil called. He spun about and thrust a finger in Roman's face, eyes glittering with barely suppressed fury. “If anything happens to him, I will end you.” Then he followed, vaulting over low-growing bushes, somehow not slipping in the snow.

“I didn't make Patton run off,” Roman grumbled as he and Logan brought up the rear.

“Was this part of your plan?” asked Logan.

“The animal, yes, Patton's impulsiveness, no. Virgil's hostility...definitely no. This is supposed to be a fun excursion!”

“I am afraid I have no advice for you.”

They caught up to find Patton inching around and poking at a dense thicket, Virgil staying close but not interfering. “It's in here somewhere,” Patton said as a repeat of the whistle from earlier confirmed his claim, “but I can't find a spot for us to get through.”

“I keep telling him this is a bad idea,” Virgil said.

“Virgil, it's fine,” said Roman. “This is how the story is supposed to go. That's our guide in there.”

“You said these stories could, and I quote, 'take on a life of their own.' How do you know—”

“Aha!” Patton exclaimed with a touch of giggle. “Here we go!” He pulled aside a swath of branches, making an opening easily big enough for them to pass through if they stooped.

It was spacious inside the thicket, with a “roof” of branches low enough that a few twigs brushed the Sides' heads, and a “floor” of earth and dead leaves—the tangle overhead was thick enough to keep out the snow, which meant it also kept out most of the daylight. They could barely make out the form of the creature that had led them there, seeing only that it was stout and dark-furred, with a hunched posture and beady eyes that twinkled in the meager light.

“Aw, it's a beaver!” Patton said. “Heeeere, beaver, beaver, beaver!”

“Hush!” the beaver said, bounding across the space. “I brought you here for secrecy's sake, but if you start shouting you'll attract the wrong sort of attention anyway.”

“See, guys?” said Virgil. “We need to be more careful.”

“How are you able to speak?” asked Logan, bemused. “You appear to have completely normal morphology for a member of genus Castor. Your vocal tract should not be capable of forming such complex sounds, to say nothing of your brain structure.”

“Logan, you're doing it again,” Patton said out of the corner of his mouth.

Mr. Beaver, for his part, ignored the nosy questions in favor of counting the Sides. “Four,” he said with deep satisfaction. “Four Sons of Adam. At last. Narnia has been waiting for you for a long time. I have so much to tell you...but not here. There's only so much privacy we can manage out-of-doors. Her spies are everywhere.”

“Her who?” Virgil said with a hint of a growl.

“Who else?” replied Mr. Beaver. He beckoned them all to lean in close, which in the Sides' case meant leaning over quite a bit. “The White Witch.”

“Oohhh yeeaahhh, I remember now,” said Patton. “She is one scary lady.”

“Understatement of the year,” Roman muttered.

“The White Witch has kept Narnia in thrall for a hundred years,” the beaver continued, “but now that you four have come, we shall finally see the end of her wicked reign. It has been prophesied.”

“Hang on, hang on,” said Virgil. “Is that the thing where four humans show up, kick the White Witch to the curb, and all settle down as kings of Narnia? Guys…are we actually down for that? I mean, I know Roman is, but…”

“If it’s part of the story, then I say we go for it,” Patton stated firmly.

“We did agree to follow through with the adventure,” said Logan.

“There is much to tell you,” said Mr. Beaver, as if the interruption hadn’t occurred, “but not here. I’ll take you to my place and fill you in on all the details. Now let’s hurry…it’ll be dark soon and you do not want to be caught in these woods after dark.”

They left the shelter of the thicket, and although the sky was overcast, it was indeed evident that the daylight was waning. The trip to the Beavers’ house was undertaken in near-silence, which gave Roman plenty of time to take stock of how the adventure was progressing.

His first thought was that it was going really well, actually. His fellow Sides were settling into their roles as fantasy protagonists, plus or minus a little snark (which was only to be expected). The scenery looked great, Mr. Beaver was following the loose “script” Roman had assigned him without any need for corrective nudging, and the adventure was shaping up just how he had imagined it.

As he thought more about the other Sides' reactions, he realized that they were even taking on rough approximations of the roles of the Pevensie children. Patton accepted everything with wide-eyed wonder, just like Lucy. Logan was being typically skeptical and sensible, much like Susan. And Virgil, in his drive to protect them all from danger, was acting almost like an eldest brother, a la Peter. That just left...

Roman stopped dead in his tracks as a chill that had nothing to do with the snow shot up and down his spine and forked down all his limbs.

I thought I was your hero...

Stories in the Imagination can take on a life of their own...

He forced his legs to start working again before the rest of the party could notice anything was wrong, and pulled up the hood on his silver mink coat in order to hide the expression of dread that he could feel forming (and to potentially play it off as a sudden bout of chill if anyone did notice).

Anyway, he was destined to be far colder before the night was over.

He should have known. How could he have overlooked something so simple?

On their final approach to the Beavers' house, Roman turned his eyes northward, toward the twin hills where the story obviously wanted him to go. Could he already spot a hint of an icy spire?

He barely tasted the trout dinner the Beavers served the four of them, barely heard the conversation that ensued. He already knew how it went, after all. His only role in all of it was to duck out early (quack?) and take the relevant news to their enemy.

He had only wanted to be the hero, but someone had to be the villain, and the story had picked Roman. How could he refuse?

#sanders sides #fanfiction #lamp/calm #platonic lamp/calm #dlampr #platonic dlampr #narnia #sympathetic janus #sympathetic remus #villainous roman

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lions-arch-chronicle · 4 years

Photo

Issue 14! Special thank you to everyone who came to our impromptu meet up for a photo!

Image ID Below Read More

Title: EXCLUSIVE! Interview with the Mad King Thorn

Story: Courica: First of all I’d like to thank you for taking the time out of your very busy fall schedule to speak with us King Thorn.

King Thorn: Well of course, what better way to let all of my wonderful subjects know that their beloved king has returned than an utterly exclusive interview.

Courica: Now, I don’t know that you’ve heard but in your year of absence you have gained a new form of popularity thanks to a certain well known author.

King Thorn: Oh really? Do tell.

Courica: You and your romantic past have become the subject of a new novel by the critically acclaimed and critically panned author Snargle Goldclaw.

King Thorn: Romance? Hardly interesting wouldn’t you think? A history on my glorious and permanent reign would have been more fitting? (laughs)

Courica: We have a copy on hand here if you’d like to take a look?

King Thorn: Ohhh don’t BIND if I do. Get it? Bind? Laugh or this interview is over and I’ll feed you to the spiders.

Courica: (extremely nervous laughter)

King Thorn: “The viscount purred.” He Purred? That bastard has never informed me that he’s capable of purring... Rotten corn cob has been holding out on me.

Courica: Wait are you confirming there are accuracies within this story and that it’s not entirely fictional?

King Thorn: Aw now where’s the fun in spoiling the end of the story, now if you excuse me I believe it’s about time to acquire a new charr rug.

Title: Kuritata’s fashion reviews: SCARY SHINY?!

Story: Oh oh oh, it’s time for the friends to wear the spooky outfits! This one comes with shinies! The shiny gloves look like they should be hot and would burn skritt if she touched them. Do they hurt? Is the shiny worth the ouchies from the gloves? Very grabby grabby looking must come in handy for grabing onto shinies. Friend also has big scarf! Skritt is proud that friend is wearing weather appropriate clothing since it’s getting cold out. Very functional and it has spooky colors too! You look like a very soft and friendly looking pumpkin to skritt. Speaking of pumpkin friend has pumpkin face! Sharp teeth and shiny glowy eyes! Skritt thinks that she could look into your shiny eyes for days . Skritt would also like to request, to borrow, your weapon, forever. It is very shiny and would be good to hold and appreciate for its shinyness. Overall a very soft looking shiny spooky holiday friend 13/10 but only if skritt can keep your sword.

Want to have your outfit reviewed?Submit your fashion photos to us! https://lions-arch-chronicle.tumblr.com/submit

Title: You have all this candy corn now what?

Story: We were originally going to provide our beloved readers with some various recipes and helpful guides on what to do with the excess amounts of candy corn obtained over the holiday season but in our research, we realized that candy corn can barely be considered food and advising any sort of consumption of it or the use of it as an ingredient would not be in the best interests of our readers. Rather we have decided to recommend a simple yet effective solution to all excess candy corn.

1. Prepare a double boiler pot of your choice and bring the water inside up to boiling temperatures.

2. Insert leftover candy corn and let it melt until it becomes soft and malleable.

3. Remove the candy corn from the heat and begin to shape into your weapon of choice.

4. Let cool and enjoy your free candy corn-based weapon.

Title: The Boasting Hall: Quaggan wants to make a new afterlife for quaggan.

Story: Coo Quaggan has something to ask of the people of Lion’s Arch. Quaggan thinks that he should be given another chance for a good afterlife. Now, foo on quaggan’s previous mistakes from his lifetime. Quaggan only needs a few more pieces of candy corn to start a good life. Consider finding me in Lion’s Arch during the festival and donating at least 100 candy corn to a poor ghostly quaggan in need ooooo. Yoooou won’t regret helping quaggan. Quaggan has made a series of questionable afterlife choices but would like to make up for it by offering my wares as well to kind people who would like to shop from quaggan. I only have the finest Prickly Spider Legs and Globs of Globby Gloop available, but later. Quaggan will need to restock so gifts of candy corn will do for now coo.

Title: How to fully commit to your costume this year

Story: If you’re anything like me, you might be struggling to find a costume that feels right for this year’s festivities. After all, how is one to improve on perfection? When you look this good year round, it can be hard to find something that looks better than what you wear everyday! Halloween is a time to go above and beyond, even if all you do is kick your feet up and read the paper. We all know the classics, devils, jesters, witches, royals, assassins, all that jazz. But have those tried and true options really achieved true perfection? Of course not, I say! If you’re looking for a costume, take something that’s been done before, and do it to the MAXIMUM! Jester? Learn to juggle! Learn to juggle KNIVES! Why not? Have you ever tried? Royalty? Go all out. Start writing flirtatious letters to members of the monarch’s line. Marry into a noble family. Wait a couple years. No one can tell you you’re not really a princess NOW, can they? We’ve all tried our hand at magic once or twice, but do you really need it to be a witch? NO! Move to the swamp! Say ominous and dreadful things to strangers! Eat strange grasses! Wear rags and scowl! I, personally, am going as a Charr, and while the Blood Legion sent my resume back unopened, I am still waiting to hear from Ash. This is the season to be whatever you want, but why must that only be a month? Become what you wish to be! Who’s going to stop you?

#Lion's Arch Chronicle #Guild Wars 2 #gw2 #gw2 halloween

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eventidespirits · 3 years

Text

Nicknames: Laur, Laurie Aliases: Jonathan Legerdemain, Jean Nuit Apparent Age: “30″ True Age: 51 Gender: Cis Man Pronouns: He/Him Sexuality: Demiromantic Gray-Ace Birthday: January 6th Occupation: Occultist, Bookstore Owner Species: Vampire (Nightingale) Residence: The Vista Rosa neighborhood in Santa Marta, CA.

𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕖

Height: 5′10 Build: Average height, has a sort of stereotypical “scrawny nerd” sort of build with a soft layer of fat/soft belly and not a lot of muscular definition. He has long arms and legs in comparison to his torso which makes him look taller than he actually is. Face Shape: Somewhere between an oval and a diamond, his facial features are fine and delicate with a long straight nose. Eye Color/Shape: Vibrant, unnaturally bright ocean-blue with cat-like slitted pupils. Large but set deep within his face with heavy, tired looking lids and deep dark circles which gives him a sort of permanent “resting bitch face”. Hair Color/Style: Slate Gray. Laurent’s hair is mostly straight with a slight wave to it (2A) and usually worn tied into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck. he has long, messy bangs that usually hang in his face. Skin Color/Texture: Very pale and desaturated with a distinct yellow undertone. He has soft skin but has a lot of small scars and marks on his hands from various occult work he did while he was still a mortal. Distinguishing Features: First off, Laurent is prematurely gray. He also has a number of tattoos (a tattoo of a magical circle for protection on his back, another protection sigil on his chest over the heart, has a tattoo of an open eye on the back of his neck). He also wears glasses. Posture: Very “proper” posture -- stands straight up but there’s that slight hunch to his shoulders that comes from hours bent over books and papers. He moves very purposefully and a little bit stiffly with quiet footsteps. Voice: Soft and understated, with the remnants of a Quebecois accent. Laurent rarely raises his voice and his speech is usually curt and clipped, possibly even seeming rude or sarcastic at times. Clothing Style: Lots of blacks and blues with some cream and charcoal. He tends to wear comfortable clothing that could pass for being formal in most situations -- black slacks, button-downs over v-necks, turtleneck sweaters and cardigans. A lot of his looks vaguely recall the 1980s when it comes to sweater choice. Notable Mannerisms: Scrunches his nose when he’s thinking deeply about something but otherwise seems to not have a lot of particularly unique or defining mannerisms (almost purposefully so)

𝕊𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕤

Physical: Lockpicking, breaking and entering Social: What Social Skills? Basic etiquette, subterfuge/lying, manipulation Talents: Calligraphy, Poetry, Prose, getting in over his head Knowledges: Greek, Latin, French, currently learning German, Masters in Psychology, Traditional Magic, Ritual Magic, Sigilcraft, Herbalism Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Gardening, Cooking Special: Basic Nightingale abilities, some natural magical talent (mostly lost after becoming a vampire), spirit sight, minor precognition

ℙ𝕤𝕪𝕔𝕙𝕖

Strengths: Clever, quick witted, tenacious, detail-oriented, good concentration, inquisitive, intuitive, dedicated, loyal, strong sense of internal morals Weaknesses: overly curious, stubborn, too smart for his own good, overly self-reflective, can be cold and emotionally distant, closed off from his emotions, rude, irritable, afraid of intimacy, standoffish, shy, just generally bad at people. Goals: To gather all the knowledge there is to be had, especially where it concerns the occult; to learn proper spontaneous magic Fears: Loss of knowledge, loss of control, true death, what lurks beneath santa marta (but not enough to stop researching it) Ideals/Morals: Laurent is willing to do almost anything to gain knowledge but there are a few things that disgust him and he finds morally abhorrent -- like hurting children or murder (notably -- he sees a difference between killing and murder but also tries to avoid killing people as a general rule unless it’s in self-defense) Guiding Philosphies: Knowledge is Power Sense of Humor: Very dry and sarcastic. He’s definitely the person to deliver a sarcastic quip with a totally straight face and it leaves people wondering if he even has a sense of humor. Overall Personality: Laurent is kind of a prickly bastard. He’s introverted and introspective and has very little interest in being around or talking to people. He can pretend to be polite very well (and expects others to behave in a similar way). He prefers things to be well-structured and mostly predictable, he has trouble dealing with sudden intense changes. He seems very distant and cold to most people -- utterly focused on his work over anything else.

𝕃𝕚𝕗𝕖

Best Memory: Worst Memory: Biggest Accomplishment: Prized Possessions: Favorite Colors: Favorite Foods: Favorite Scents: Favorite Songs: Can't Leave Home Without:

ℍ𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

Birthplace: Suburbs of Montreal, Quebec Childhood: Growing up, Laurent’s parents were usually very busy, both having careers that demanded a lot of their attention. He and Louis were often left to sort of fend for themselves (classic latch-key kids). Being the more shy of the twins, Laurent often relied on Louis to make friends -- having few friends that he could consider his specifically. At around the age of 11, while playing at his neighbor’s house after school with Louis, their friend Alex and his younger sister Madeline, the four of them found a oujia board and did what any group of pre-teens would do: they turned out the lights and used it. Unfortunately for the twins, the house was old and the board itself connected to a rather angry spirit that would attach itself to Louis and scare the hell out of the other three children. This is what would start Laurent’s interest in the occult but it was what would happen the next summer that would cement it as an obsession... While playing in a local park, something that Laurent could neither identify or describe beyond “a writhing mass of eyes, grasping tendrils and eyes” would pluck Alex from the face of existence -- not only taking the 12 year old but erasing any sign that he had ever existed to begin with from the minds of everyone but Laurent.

Adolescence: At thirteen, Laurent’s family moved to Santa Marta, California. Highschool was difficult for Laurent, who had started to go prematurely gray by the time he was 14 and was shy and bookish. He had to deal with a lot of bullying and it cemented his irritability.

He did, however, thanks to the unique nature of Santa Marta (attracting the supernatural) manage to make friends with a Witch by the name of Martin. They’d also date for about a year in secret before both decided that it just wasn’t working. However, the pair of them were obsessed with the occult and the presence of the “Old Gods” which were present in constant whispers in Santa Marta. This is where Laurent got into most of the trouble he would as a teenager -- breaking into abandoned buildings looking for ghosts and signs of the supernatural as well as getting 100% illegal tattoos in dangerous settings (most notably, he had his protection sigil done by Martin in his basement along with the eye on the back of his neck).

Somehow, probably just due to luck, Laurent never actually got in legal trouble for any of the crazy shit he did as a teen but that luck wouldn’t last.

Adulthood: In his desperate search for occult knowledge, Laurent would end up crossing paths with a woman named Claudine -- a Nightingale who was also an accomplished occultist and a powerful witch in her own right. He would end up stealing several of her important research journals and end up becoming her “assistant” at the age of twenty-one (she normally would’ve killed him for it but was impressed by his dedication and natural skill). She would keep him on as an assistant, teaching him about the occult and preparing him for life in the Nightingale Court before finally turning him in 2000.

Recent: In 2010, Claudine would disappear suddenly -- leaving behind only a note about her own research into the “thing that lurks beneath the streets of this blighted metropolis” and pointing Laurent in a similar direction. During his training with Claudine, Laurent would run into mentions of the “Myriad Eyes” multiple times, especially when researching the occult history of Santa Marta... A phrase that he quickly came to associate with the thing that had taken his childhood friend.

Currently, he’s running a bookstore in Vista Rosa called “Eigengrau Books” and living in an apartment located above the store.

ℝ𝕖𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕡𝕤

Family: Jean DeFantome (Father; deceased), Emily DeFantome (Mother), Louis DeFantome (twin brother; estranged) Lovers: Martin Schwartz (former), Camellia O’Friel (current) Friends: Isaac Nerezza (works at his bookstore), Claudine Legerdemain (Missing) Enemies: ??? Other: ???

ℝ𝕖𝕤𝕠𝕦𝕣𝕔𝕖𝕤

Income: Middle-class Residences: A two bedroom apartment above his bookstore. Vehicles: Black 2010 Ford Fiesta Van

#Laurent DeFantome #About: Laurent #ooc

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alien-witch-fangs-rp · 3 years

Text

Aster E. Aethelweard

Sexual orientation: demisexual biromantic

Pronouns: He/Him

Gender identity: Transmasc

Age: Varies, rarely younger than 19 nor ever older than few centuries

General height: 6'2

Hair: Usually White

Eyes: Red

Species: Varies depending on AU

Generally personality/details: hard headed, soft hearted. He can be very teasing in nature either out of affection or cruelty. He can be quite insecure and can be insensitive, tries not to be. Smart but an idiot. Too curious for his own good sometimes, other times just stubborn or anxious. Mostly stubborn.

Has a sensitive to spirit and malevolent entities.

Usually has a scar through his left eye, a nasty scar over the centre of his chest, and missing his right arm. Prosthetic replacement or not, depends in au. Sometimes has a cat named Hades or a dog named Memoona, rare occasions both

Always necrophobic

AUs:

General ones:

Earth Bound Nov, Classic: ((Novs are my own species, and I am taking time to write all the details)) he's a shapeshifter with a temper, he prefers/tries to be left alone. But, sometimes he gets too curious for himself and pokes around at anything. He vision isn't fantastic, using his power of plants to at least get an idea if he doesn't have an itch to draw near yet.

Blessed by the forest god

Techician: human, usually 19yrs sometimes 23yrs old, he's a bit more cocky to hide his insecurities. He's not very boisterous and his sense of danger is a little on the uncaring side when it's over his safety. Others he gives more of a shit over and will do his best to defend even at his own risk.

Forest Prince: Usually 19yrs to 25ish yrs old, he's reckless and trying to separate himself a bit from his kingdom. Mostly from his parents' choice in men for him, he loves his people and wants better for them.

After they pass, he pursues it more vigilantly.

Has the least scars, with only having the scar in the of his chest and sometimes the one through his eye. Vessel for the forest god

Day Walker: age varies greatly. Semi classic vampire, sometimes pure blood but daywalker or half breed. His safety means nothing, he's not quite reckless but he will risk himself. He hunts other vampires, has little interest in giving most of his kin kindness. Used to humans not liking him and doesn't really have vested interest in changing that.

Sea Witch: a tiger mershark of undetermined age, hot tempered as a self-defense thing. He doesn't like having people near him, will refuse to speak on occasions. He prefers to be by himself but will sometimes allow others into his life. For the most part he's just interested in doing his own thing and working on his craft.

He might help others if asked but it comes at a price.

Replacement: he's an android of a sort, doesn't obey the laws of robotics. He doesn't have a lot of memories besides little pieces of a human life that he can't fully tell if it was his. He just knows that nobody owns him and he will be pissed if someone tries. He is disobedient and prickly.

Death God: despite the title he does more than deal with death and spirits. He is of familial love, magic, and nature. He is more of a guardian and guide, quite gentle and somber. He is very compassionate and though he sees the world and the happenings in it, he has a draw to be among the living. Sometimes giving himself a mortal body out of that draw.

Side AUs:

Selkie!, cursed prince (3 storylines), Merc!, Khajiit, Werepanther, Phantom, Muted Tech, Coma Spirit Tech, Haunted Suit, Shuttlebound (nov), Homeworld (nov), Ghost Hunter, Witch, Forest Farm (maybe neko, depends), Cafe Neko, Researcher (scp or others), Naga (godly and regular naga), Zoroark, werewolf, etc. ((I'm a nightmare to myself, I will make more))

#aster tbh #mun ramblings #((I honestly have things like. in place but like not often together. it's a bad habit))#((aus can fit to games I have interest in too. that's like massively a habit for me))#((dbh. stardew. borderlands. thinking on vague ideas to hoa. elder scrolls. dmc esque. like ya know. ideas. i have like billions of thought #and no brain. because why have that when I have ideas))#((might think on other games and series I like. fit this idiot in there some how))

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nyctolovian · 4 years

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Summary: What if Jon was a Witch and Martin was a Runaway Royalty? Funnily enough, it doesn't make their first meeting any less unfortunate and terrible.

Warning: Since this might be something people are sensitive about, Martin is described as "fat" and "plump" in this fic. But not in a derogatory way? (Please tell me if it comes off as such oh dear.)

"Who the hell gave you the right to eat all my cookies?" Jon hissed, brandishing his broom at the intruder.

The man gulped visibly as his round chocolate eyes wobbled. The crumbs still dusted between the freckles of his pale cheeks irked Jon to no end.

He had been saving those butter cookies, savoring only a couple every few days. So you can imagine the shock and fury that coursed through Jon's veins when he returned to his cottage after a frankly needless travel, and found a large man sitting in his living room with an empty tin on his lap. Before the man could even react, Jon had shoved him to the floor and whipped his broom forward threateningly, demanding an explanation for the cookie thievery. If Jon had given the situation more thought, he might have realised his priorities were slightly out of order, but it was the only tin he had procured from when he last set foot amongst human civilization. And he abhorred the thought of going into a town after just three months for a mere tin of cookies.

"I-I-I'm really sorry… I…" the intruder stammered out. "I, um, stumbled upon this cottage… and no one came back for the past two days so… I thought it was abandoned and, well, stayed…"

"Abandoned?!" Jon shouted. "What part of this–" he gestured towards his numerous possessions with his broom "–looks abandoned to you?"

Sure, the cottage didn't have much furniture, but there was plenty of belongings that served to prove its occupancy. Most obvious was how it was filled wall-to-wall with towering mahogany shelves of well-kept books. No one in their right mind would simply desert such an extensive collection of ancient knowledge. This house was admittedly more library than home, but Jon's point still stood.

"Well," muttered the man, "it is quite messy and dirty to be honest."

Jon narrowed his eyes at the intruder, who hastily muttered an apology. It wasn't as though he was wrong though. If one were to believe Sasha James (whom, in Jon's experience, had never been categorically wrong), his living conditions were dreadful. It was as though a hurricane had swept through the house, throwing his belongings about, but deliberately left the dust and dirt alone. Books were scattered across all surfaces, couch and floor included, as several layers of dirt settled on the floor, shelves and table. Even some articles of clothing strewn on the floor and chairs have gotten jealous, and begun their own collection of dust as well. And maybe the air in this house was… a fair bit mustier than it should be.

Jon had never been much of a cleaner.

"I'm sorry. I really am," the man began again. "You're… not going to kill me, are you?"

"What? No!" Jon scrunched his nose in horror. "Of course not."

"Oh, uh, good." He let out a nervous chuckle. "To be honest, when I first came in and saw all the books and crockery, I thought the owner of the house might be some kind of witch. I'm glad you aren't one. They can be quite creepy, and I frankly don't like the idea of being cursed by one."

Thunk! Jon hit the butt of his broom against the wooden floor, eyes narrowed. Drily, he corrected, "I am a witch."

"Oh." The fat man pursed his lips as he shrunk into himself. "That would explain some stuff."

With a huff, Jon rolled his eyes. It was tiring to constantly have people doubt or assume he wasn't a witch just because of the way he looked. Admittedly, most people in the witchery profession were women. He had only known three men who were witches, only one of whom he had actually met, and maybe one other non-binary witch. At least this time he hadn't been accused of lying. "Don't worry. I won't put a curse on you or anything absurd," he told the now deathly pale intruder.

The man let out a sigh. "Right. Thank you. Sorry," he said nervously as he stood up, hunching into himself apologetically. “ I'll… let myself out now.”

Jon wielded his broom once more and the man yelped pathetically. "Now, hold on. I'm not letting you go after you've treated my house like a hostel for two days and eaten all my cookies."

"I'm really sorry," he muttered. "I don't have a single coin on me…" He pointed at an unfamiliar bag beside the table. "I… I do have some parchment and quill though."

"Parchment and quill?"

"It… has a certain vintage feel to it."

"No need. I can subsist on pen and paper just fine." He jerked his head towards the overflowing mess of a study table.

The man winced. "I'm sorry… I really don't have much else with me."

"Right," Jon said, narrowing his eyes. He couldn't help but doubt those words. The fabric of the man's clothes looked rather expensive, and the garment was skilfully crafted to fit his stocky build. It was unusual to see a man this well-dressed without a single coin in his possession. But an actually well-to-do man wouldn't be stumbling into cottages in a forest and polishing opened cookie tins off, Jon would presume. "What's your name?" he asked.

The man's already big eyes widened further. "Uh, what?"

Impatiently, Jon groaned. "Your name. Do you have one?" he asked, acid practically dripping from his voice.

"Ah, um, yes," the man stammered out. "I'm Martin K- Blackwood."

"Martin K. Blackwood?"

"Uh, yeah?"

"Are you answering or asking a question?" Jon snapped.

"Answering! Answering."

He huffed in annoyance, his eyes sliding across his kitchen. When he had left, unwashed crockery and cutlery were piled up into haphazard towers in the sink and on his tables. However, they were now properly washed, dried, and placed into his cabinets. So this home intrusion hadn't been an entirely unprofitable one.

With a glint in his eyes, Jon said, "I have a proposition."

***

Stupid Martin, he cursed himself. Why are you constantly making things worse for yourself?

First, it was the whole running away from home thing. He didn't regret that in particular, but he probably should have brought along more than 10 silver pieces. It was no wonder how after a mere week, all his money was spent or given to a group of famished scrawny children. Then, he had decided to cut through the woods in hopes that he could sustain himself on wild berries, none of which, he later found, looked convincingly edible. Then, he had stumbled upon a curious cottage in the middle of a dense forest and, upon finding it abandoned, let himself settle in. As was typical of his luck, it wasn't actually abandoned, and its owner was none other than a witch. Thinking back, he should have taken note of the tinge of change in the air when he first stepped foot, evidence of its steady pool of magic, and its otherworldly still-resident.

Most mortifyingly, however, Martin had flushed to a ridiculous shade of pink when the witch smirked and said he had a "proposition" because, holy crap, did Martin have an imagination. The puzzlement on the witch's face at his reaction before clarifying what aforementioned proposition actually was might have been the finishing blow to his dignity.

"You're not in some romantic comedy," he muttered angrily to himself as he scrubbed the study table with all his might.

"Did you say something?"

Martin looked up at the witch, who had retreated to the floor while Martin cleaned his study table. He had built a fortress of books around himself and had to straighten himself to look over its walls. There was genuine confusion on his features as he asked the question.

"Uh, no," Martin said, shooting him a smile and adjusting his spectacles nervously. "Just a rather nasty stain here."

The witch–"Jon, Jonathan Sims," he had been told–shrugged and returned to burying his nose in some spell book, his tousled hair cascading gently with the movement to frame his handsome face with a wavy shoulder-length curtain. His slender fingers flipped the page gently before curling thoughtfully over his stubbly chin.

With a sigh of resignation, Martin got back to removing the stubborn stain on the dining table.

It always were the prickly men that had the prettiest faces, weren't they? So Martin really couldn't be faulted for consistently developing unwise infatuations for them.

The image was still imprinted in his mind's eye, like an afterimage of too-bright light. Falling to the floor had kicked up a cloud of dust and the poet in Martin felt the air tremble with ethereality. And the sight before him was nothing short of divine.

Jon's lustrous greying locks tangled gently with the sunset glow from the ajar front door, and his silhouette was outlined with light. It highlighted how well the black pinstripe suit fit his slender figure and gave him a sort of cool sharpness. His thick eyebrows were tightly knitted in a rather adorable frown on confusion. His eyes were beautiful obsidian that reflected every shimmer of emotions upon its surface. Martin found his gaze slowly trickle down from those eyes to his thin parted lips as though guided by the sureness of gravity. Then, Jon brandished his broomstick and–bloody hell–Martin would be lying if he said that didn't spark an embarrassing warmth in his gut.

Being in close proximity with someone this hot was going to be detrimental to his health. Martin was pretty sure if he spent a second longer around this man, he would have fainted like an anaemic lady in a poorly fitted corset. That or lock himself in the washroom, preferably with the shower on, for a suspiciously long period of time.

Thank god, however, Jon had the fashion sense of a grandmother. When he emerged from his bedroom, he had changed out of his suit, into a dark green cardigan, overstretched beige shirt, and grey tartan trousers. (Tartan? Really?) Every single article of clothing was baggy and oversized beyond what was sensible for someone as small and angular as Jon. Martin had never seen anyone more swallowed up by clothing than Jon was. That was saying a lot since Martin had seen more jesters than the average person in their entire lifetime.

At least, he supposed, the colours of his apparel complemented his dark earthy skin, bringing out the richness in its tone. Martin might go as far as to say that what Jon was wearing now made sense. When Jon first appeared, he was posh and brooding dark colours, oozing with cruelty–a foreboding shadow that obtruded the autumn palette of forest and cottage. However, in his indoor clothes, he was an easy fit in the puzzle that was this house, with its quaint exterior and cosy interior.

There might also be something endearing about seeing such a slight person swaddled in soft fabric. And the smallness of the man as he sat criss-crossed on the floor did no favours for Martin’s sensibilities either.

Martin shook his head, physically objecting to his own train of thought. He couldn't afford to let his imagination run wild like letting loose a golden retriever with cabin fever. After all, if he actually had to clean up the house to compensate for his intrusion, he was going to be staying in this cottage for a long while. Because, despite his unquestionable familiarity with his broom, Jon had clearly not used it (or any cleaning tool for that matter) in the house for at least 4 months, and Martin was now left to deal with the aftermath of such a decision.

With a soft sigh, he went to change the water in the pail before moving on to cleaning the kitchen table, which was honestly worse off than the study table. That was a major understatement given the amounts of stains and bits left on the kitchen table. Martin rolled up his sleeves and began to scrub the stubborn stains.

As he got rid of the last grime on the table, he stood upright and stretched his back, hearing it crack softly. His eyes settled upon the clock above the bookshelves. It was 8.45pm already. Concernedly, he asked Jon, "What time do you usually have dinner?"

The witch looked up from his volume, his dark hooded eyes blinking owlishly. As though just realising what Martin had said, he let out a quiet noise and glanced towards the clock. "Oh," he muttered. "I forgot."

Like a disappointed parent, Martin pursed his lips.

"Now." Jon nodded to himself as he rose from the floor. "Now would be good."

"I could cook."

Jon jerked to a halt, midway to standing upright. "Ah, yes." He plopped to the wooden floor like a stuffed doll before crossing his legs once more. "I should have some potatoes…"

Sheepishly, Martin said, "Actually, um, I ate them. But, uh, I can cook rice."

Jon jutted his chin out. Exasperatedly, he waved his hand and grumbled, "Fine. Do whatever." Grumpily, he returned to reading again.

After clearing the dining table as best as he could, Martin went to work with cooking. After examining the contents of the fridge, he decided on a simple meal with baked beans and some veggies and sausages since there wasn't enough time to defrost any meat.

While Martin was scooping out the uncooked rice, Jon suddenly spoke, "Do you really know how to cook rice? None of that white-people rice-boiling nonsense. I have a rice cooker." Then, in the most condescending voice, he asked, "You do know how to use a rice cooker, right?"

"If it assures you, I've worked in the kitchen of a Mexican restaurant before."

Jon, whom Martin was fairly certain by now had quite the dramatic streak, visibly relaxed with a loud sigh of relief. "That's good." Then, he burrowed into his books again.

Turning around, Martin rolled his eyes and flipped on the tap to wash the rice. After filling the rice cooker with rice and water, he plugged the cooker to a socket and hummed with curiosity. "I wonder where the electricity comes from?"

"Magic."

Martin startled.

Jon's head was peeking out from behind his ever-growing book fort, which now reached just below his chin. There was a proud quirk in his eyebrow as he continued, "I decided living this deep in the forest doesn't mean I have to give up the conveniences of technology. So I've imbued this cottage with magic to keep the electricity running."

"Well, that would explain the lone WiFi network my phone detected."

"It's password protected," Jon said, as he wriggled a smartphone out of his pocket. "Do you need it?"

"No thanks," Martin responded immediately. Then, realising how strange he must sound, he added, "Uh. I have unlimited data."

Despite how ridiculous this must have sounded, Jon didn't seem to pay the blatant lie much attention. Instead, his attention had shifted to his own mobile phone. He typed furiously into the device for a few minutes before his phone began to ring. His expression soured and he muttered under his breath, "God damn it, Tim."

"What?" Martin blurted even though he had heard Jon loud and clear.

"Just a… troublesome friend. It's none of your business." Jon picked up the phone and began the call with the most peeved "Yes, Tim?"

"Right. Yes… Of course." Still, Martin couldn't help but perk his ears.

"Before you begin, the answer is a resounding no," Jon said. "No, I don't. ... It doesn't matter to me what the rewards are. … You can't– Ugh…" He squeezed his nose between his thumb and forefinger. "I really couldn't care less. … I'm not your personal sniffer dog. Or the state's for that matter.” The perpetual small frown on his face deepened with bewilderment. “What do you mean you’re not…?” Then, with a huff, he muttered, “Shocking.” His lips however quirked up by an almost indiscernible centimetre.

Martin felt a pang of curiosity. This might have been the first trace of a smile that he had seen on the crotchety man. Noticing that he was staring, Martin ducked his head and busied himself with cooking the sausages.

Suddenly, Jon shot to his feet. "Don't you dare!" he hissed. "Tim, I'm warning you. … Fine." His tense shoulders relaxed as he folded his arms in front of his chest. "I'll… I'll see what I can do." To Martin's disappointment, Jon stepped over his fort of books and headed into his bedroom, where the conversation continued without eavesdropping ears. Pursing his lips,

Worry was a hungry hound nestled under Martin’s sternum. Perhaps his ribs were particularly sweet in its canine teeth because it frequently gnawed and chewed at his chest. But this might be the biggest and hungriest hound yet, though this time it spared him and merely nibbled.

Stop overthinking things, he told himself. Not every Tim in the world is going to be Tim Stoker.

***

Tim Stoker was unrelenting when he wanted something.

Jon had realised this long before when he had helped search for his brother but this was ridiculous. Threatening to reveal a hermit’s address, much more one that practiced the occult, was to strip a hermit crab of its shell. And revealing it to the Royal Guards of all people was to smash the shell with a massive hammer while the crab was still in it—needlessly cruel and most probably going to get him killed.

But Jon supposed simply helping Tim out would be much less inconvenient than moving house and cutting ties with the man. Besides, he wasn’t entirely a nuisance.

With a grunt, he knelt beside his bag, still unpacked from his previous trip, and grabbed his journal and a pen. "Alright," he said, setting the book on his lap and pinning his phone between his head and shoulder. "Tell me about this prince. Age? Birthday? Height? Weight? Something?"

"Um… 28, I believe? Not sure about his birthday… Height is between 180 and 190, I think? Uh… He's on the fat side… He's got curly brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, wears glasses, dimples handsomely when he smiles…"

A long-suppressed groan finally escaped Jon. After his draining trip to the Witch's Conference, he really didn't have the energy to listen to Tim describe what was clearly a small crush of sorts. "This is going nowhere. Just send me a photo."

There was a brief sheepish silence. "Haven't got one, actually."

"Alright, hold up," Jon cut him off. "How on earth do you have nothing on this man? He's a prince for god's sake. In fact, I've only been hearing about this whole missing prince debacle from you. How is this not on the news yet? It's as if you people don't even want him back."

"Well," Tim mumbled over the phone, "it's… a tad bit complicated. You know, how I said I'm not doing this for the state?"

"Mm."

"It's 'cause he ran away to avoid getting married off to another kingdom," Tim said. "Specifically the Nebula Kingdom."

Jon raised an eyebrow. The political ties of the Nebula Kingdom and the Kinsley Royal Family would put even the most volatile stock markets to shame. That was to say, they were mercurial at best. Having a marriage between the two nations would likely stabilise their relations, but if the groom scampered off, it wouldn't just look bad. There would have to be either war (fortunately, a non-militaristic one since neither country was physically confrontational), or massive compensations of the monetary sort. And the Kinsley Royal Family was not quite as wealthy as Nebula, so their best bet at the moment would be keep this runaway business on the down-low for now.

From the other end of the phone, Tim sucked in a hiss of breath through his teeth. "Yeah… So, honestly, only the most high ranking officials are aware of his disappearance. To everyone else, he's just caught a bad case of flu."

Curious, Jon pressed, "And how is a mere royal alchemist such as yourself privy to such confidential information?"

"Actually, he's a friend of mine," Tim said. "So you can imagine how worried I am for him right now."

"I take it you're not carting him off to the palace the moment I find him?"

"Of course not," Tim said with an affronted tone.

Jon let out a hum. "And why the lack of photographs?"

"Well," Tim said. "There's the fact that he's pretty camera-shy. But, also, he's sort of… an illegitimate child of the prince. So things were kept on the very down-low when it came to him."

"Good lord." Jon squeezed his nose bridge with a loud sigh. He could imagine it already: keeping the illegitimate child a secret, ensuring no one could recognise him, and then using him as a marriage pawn when the time was ripe. With how notoriously prolific the prince was, no one could ever tell the difference between an illegitimate child and a regular concubine's offspring.

How a man could sustain such a virile lifestyle perplexed Jon, to be honest. But there were a great many things of the sexual nature that had that effect on the witch so he'd much rather think about actually decipherable things such as spells and potions.

Mentally shoving his distaste aside, Jon continued, "So how do you suppose I find this man without any useful information?"

Jon could practically hear the sunshine in Tim's voice. "Not sure to be honest! I was kind of hoping you'd have an idea."

"I'm a witch. Not a… private detective or sniffer dog or whatever you're taking me to be!" Jon grumbled. "Tim, it's not that I don't want to help you, but you have to give me something better than just a general description of the man."

"Right…" Tim sounded genuinely disappointed. "What about his stuff? I'm not sure about witchcraft but you guys use possessions and stuff for curses and such, right? If I manage to find something he left behind… would that work?"

Jon hummed in thought. "Wait a moment."

He scavenged through the books in his bedroom and found a leather-bound journal that was practically falling apart. Gently, he flipped through the pages and finally came across the section he was looking for.

"Well, if we are to use an object, I'd cast a searching spell on the seeker, which I suppose would likely be yourself," he explained, running his forefinger over the squiggles of the page. "There are then several criteria that the object has to fulfill. First, we need it to be of emotional importance. Then, it has to have a connection between the target and the seeker, meaning you should try to find a gift from this man. Not something you took without his permission or something that is borrowed. And even then, there is a chance of it being a dud."

"That's… not ideal," Tim winced out. "I'll see what I can find." His voice was warm and sincere. "Hey, thanks a bunch, dude. You helped me find Danny, and now Martin as well… I was lying about exposing your house address by the way. I'd never do that. "

"Yes, Tim, I know."

Tim bounced back into his cheeky disposition. "Love you too, Jon! Bye!"

Jon rolled his eyes and ended the call.

Martin… The prince had the same name as his unexpected intruder…

A frown settled upon his brow. What if…

There was a quick rap against his bedroom door. Jon got to his feet and opened it.

"Oh!" Martin–the intruder–gasped. "I thought you were… still on your phone… or something. Um, I was just… Dinner's ready?"

"Ah," Jon said with a nod. The two of them sat at the dining table. The food looked good actually, much to Jon's relief. Still, with some frankly warranted skepticism, he fluffed the rice with a scoop, and when he saw that it was nice and soft. He placed it in his bowl and began to eat.

Sitting opposite, the cook took a sigh of relief at the silent approval and dug in as well. Then, his phone began to ring and he swiped the screen absently. "I saw some tea in the cabinets so…" he muttered as he got up and carried two mugs from the kitchen counter to the table.

Jon took a sniff from the cup. Chamomile. Carefully, he took a sip, and his eyebrows yanked upwards with delight.

Martin's plump cheeks dimpled deeply with pride as he hummed and drank from his own mug as well.

Jon supposed he earned that. When he brought the rim of the mug to his lips again, his eyes fluttered half-closed as the fragrance of the tea surrounded his senses like an old but well-kept blanket, warm and soothing.

Wouldn't it be great to keep him around? His mind sponsored. Jon had to beat the thought down with a stick. He was a hermit and he planned to stay as such. Besides, Jon had a niggling feeling about this man's identity...

But this Martin couldn't possibly be a Prince Martin, Jon convinced himself Imagine such excellent tea-brewing skills squandered on royalty.

#magpod #the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #witch au #royalty au #fantasy au #ace jon #nb jon #tma fanfic #my writing

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alternativewinxcontinuity · 4 years

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Margarita

Home World: Eraklyon (Born in Isis) | (Father is from the lagoon planet: Laugos)

Purview: Fairy of Pearls (Fairy of that which is hidden by 'beauty' or gilded, has a manifest preference for pearls)

Hair Colour: black with an iridescent sheen (purple and blue)

Eye colour: amber-brown

Skin: peachy-beige

Height: 5 foot something (in heels)

Personality Key Words: polite, accommodating, five-seconds-from-feral, sharp/prickly

Hobbies: diving for treasure (sometimes treasure is a handful of pearls, sometimes it's getting to see a fun looking fish)

Favourite Foods: has a secret love for soft, stuffed fruit-buns

Pixie: N/A

Mother and Early Life:

Margarita comes from a mixed background, born to a single mother in Isis after a brief affair which her mother, Sabbia, believed to be the start of a long lasting relationship, Margarita has always felt the weight of her mother's expectations and desire for a better life for them both.

Their family line has had only weak fairies, and those have been spread out over the generations. Sabbia, was the first fairy of any real strength but her familial duty kept her home bound and helping with the old inn their family runs instead of learning more than the basics about her powers.

During a treaty summit roughly 16-18 years pre-series, the inn hosted the King of Laugos and his entourage, and Margarita was conceived, but Sabbia was left behind when the party returned to their own world.

Her mother pushed Margarita to embrace all the chances Sabbia had missed in her youth, and become the best fairy Margarita could be.

(And also with the hope Margarita's father would acknowledge her existence.)

Unfortunately for Margarita, this push for excellence hits unhealthy levels of obsession for her mother, something Margarita is aware of, but she doesn't feel like she can get out of her current circumstances without throwing everything her mother has ever sacrificed for Margarita back in her face. (And she believes she has nowhere to go.)

Margarita plans to get a well paying job that will allow her to take care of her mother and repay everything Sabbia has ever done for her, but one that will also take her away from her mother frequently. (Academically, logically, Margarita knows she shouldn't have to pay her mother back for doing the basic motherly steps of raising her own child, but beyond just feeling beholden to her mother, Margarita has some genuine affection for Sabbia which makes it difficult to keep an emotional distance.)

As a result of Sabbia's drive for Margarita's success, Margarita had very little social life as a young child which left Margarita feeling forever out of step with her peers, only her experience helping at the inn gave her the (customer service) ability to interact with others in a way that makes her seem personable.

Her academic achievements meant Margarita was always at the top of her class and often somewhat ahead, which helped her to secure scholarships to Eraklyon's premier school to study magic.

Which is where she met Diaspro.

Academia and Diaspro:

The two young women have been fighting each other for the top spot in everything since they first took the same exam. Despite driving one another ever harder, they recognise a kindred spirit, both of them throwing away their own desires (not that they’ve ever really had the chance to figure out what those are exactly) to strive for unobtainable perfection.

They share a mutual, if grudging respect for one another, and any time another student comes close to replacing them at the top of the score boards, they close ranks and study together. (“If someone's going to beat me, it had better be you! I won't lose to some nobody!”)

The high stress of always having to maintain perfect grades and be friendly (if not friends) with everyone is extremely taxing, and Margarita often feels like she's on the edge of a complete meltdown.

Biological Quirks:

As a fairy from a long line of strong fairies associated with the elemental idea of earth and stone, Diaspro has a higher than average natural strength which Margarita will never match.

As someone who has a parent from Laugos, Margarita's body has a more efficient respiratory and cardio vascular system which allows her to run for longer and endure less hospitable air qualities better. (and dive for longer without spell assistance.)

Of course, Margarita can't shake off being thrown through a brick wall as easily as Diaspro.

And there's a down side to Laugossian heritage.

Laugos is called the Lagoon planet, it is covered primarily by lagoons and shoals, the surface water in most areas is often only 50 - 100 metres deep, though there are some sections of ocean which are said to be dozens of kilometres deep. (The furthest down most people go is 5 kilometres, which is half the depth of the Marianas Trench on Earth.)

The people of Laugos live in the shallows of the ocean, in crystalline under water cities, their eyes are adapted for extreme glare and constant shifting of light.

Margarita's eyes aren't able to handle the light like a pure-blooded Laugosian would, but her eyes aren't Eraklyon standard either, and occasionally she wears glasses or contacts to regulate her eyes' photo-sensitivity.

During the Series:

Margarita has never been Sky's biggest fan, finding out about the events of the Day of the Royals had her ready to commit treason and beat him to death with his own arm, but she decided Diaspro need a sympathetic shoulder more.

After Diaspro was kidnapped from her own palace while attending her princess duties, Margarita told Diaspro that she'd developed a theory:

M: “Weird things have been happening to you in the past few years, and it always seems to be while you're off doing your princess things, and therefore I miss them. I propose, you stop going places with out me, because I am clearly the anchor your life revolves around, nothing bizarre has ever happened to you around me, so for your own safety...”

D: *starts laughing and doesn't stop for several minutes* “Yeah, sure, that's how I get my life back on track”

M: “Well if you're going to be sarcastic, see if I ever help you again.”

D: “No! Come back! I need you to help me make 'Queen Consorting for Dummies'.”

M: “... what for?”

D: “urgh, Bloom. Sky's dating her, probably wants to marry her, which means she needs to know everything I know, and she has far less time to learn it in.”

M: “Your making her a cheat guide for Consort studies? Really? Her?”

D: “Sure, why not right? It's my duty as the Heir of Isis to ensure Eraklyon is in the best capable hands, which means making her hands any kind of capable. It's just duty. It's not like she ruined my life, stole my purpose and destroyed my entire sense of identity!!”

M: “... I don't know exactly when I became the calm, stable one in this relationship, but I hate it.”

Shortly before Valtor broke out of the Omega Dimension, Margarita received a summons from her father requesting her help.

Prince Litore, the heir to the throne had been injured and cursed in an attack by an ancient sea witch who had suddenly crawled out of the depths of Laugos's ocean, from a place called “koiláda tou thanátou”, (lit. “Death Valley”) the deepest chasm in the ocean floor which few have ever gone into, and which none have ever returned until now.

Margarita was called because her father had known of her existence, but never planned to acknowledge her, until the witch returned. Their ancestor had been a Guardian Fairy who'd defeated the witch before locking the tool she'd used away so it couldn't be misused, and only a fairy of her bloodline could free it.

Margarita is, of course, the only known fairy of her bloodline currently alive available. And naturally the Prince can’t be un-cursed until the witch has been defeated, so she absolutely has to do that while she’s there retrieving the witch-be-gone-device anyway.

By the time she's finished and able to return to Eraklyon, Diaspro has already been banished.

(Which makes Margarita laugh in hysterics, because she's just gotten herself perma-banned from Laugos for punching the king in the face after he acted like they'd done her a favour for calling her, rather than her doing Laugos and the royal family a favour by showing up and risking her life to save them.)

Margarita agrees that she could see how people would think so, but she's 100% certain Diaspro did not roofie prince Sky of her own free will. Not that Margarita can ever prove it one way or the other because the Eraklyon Royal guards stonewall her attempts to investigate.

Margarita's Father:

You may have guessed, Margarita's father is the King of Laugos.

Unlike with her mother, Margarita has no mixed feelings about her father and thinks he's 100% a piece of garbage (and not even the classy kind you're supposed to recycle).

She's also 78% certain she has more siblings than Prince Litore, who she thinks is arrogant and naïve, but not a complete loss if he can get his head out of his ass.

#winx club oc #winx OC #Winx Alt Con

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inmyownlittlecorner5 · 4 years

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Moonlight Chapter 26: Scraps

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 26/26

Moonlight Masterpost+

<< Chapter Twenty-Five+

Wherever she was, it was quiet and safe. It was also dark. She thought that her eyes were open, but she could not see anything at all. It was like the time her family had gone to that cave that Jesse James had hidden in, and the tour guide had turned off all the lights so they could see how dark it was. She and her brothers had waved their hands in front of each others’ faces, laughing themselves silly at the fact that they couldn’t see them. But she wasn’t worried; not now. The taste of elderflower tickled her tongue, she was bone-weary, and whatever she was lying on was deliciously soft. A sound like water lapping at the shore rocked her, and she felt no pain in this half-world.

It was her time; and she was ready to go.

Something cool touched her; something sharp and prickly that prodded her forehead, her cheek, her chest. She wheezed and tried to protest the invasion, but no words came out. It was like trying to talk underwater. A babble of sounds mixed with the rushing noise in her ears; and though she thought she heard voices, she could not make out their words. Her eyes were shut after all, and she had not the energy to pry them open. She wished they would stop, these things that tormented her. As the voices grew louder and came into sharper focus, she tried to flinch away and failed. Being touched hurt. The voices hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything…

“….Miranda….”

Oh. That voice. She knew that voice. It washed over her like dark honey and she panted, desiring more of its soothing tones.

“Severus?” Her own voice was a pathetic plea, but she was past caring about trifling things like dignity and pride. She was thirsty for his voice, thirsty for his touch, thirsty for his very presence, and dying—of thirst or something else—but dying all the same.

“I’m here. Don’t talk. I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s.”

Her heart tripped; and though she had surfaced to intolerable pain, she was willing to bear it for a little longer, if only for the pleasure of hearing him speak. She was no longer content to lie still and wait, she had to move, had to touch him. But her limbs ignored her like rebellious children, and she could only whimper her disapproval as the thing underneath her jerked her body. White-hot streaks of agony stabbed her everywhere, and she heard him swear brokenly under his breath. That wouldn’t do. She would be brave for him. She quieted her complaints and willed her eyes to open. And, though it took every ounce of strength she had left, open they did, and she saw him.

His face was pale, like always, and his hair hung limply on either side of his angular cheeks. It was oily today, like it was when he’d spent too much time in the potions room, or when he’d forgotten to wash it for too long. When they had first met, he had been careless about that aspect of his appearance. But after she’d gone to Romania, every time she saw him, his hair had been scrupulously clean. She’d never mentioned it, but she had noticed. He must not have expected to see her today.

“Severus,” she whispered, “it’s been good.”

His tone was stern when he answered her. “Miranda, I absolutely forbid you to die. It is completely out of the question.”

A laugh bubbled up in her, and she tasted blood in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s anything that can stop that now.”

“You took the Stasis Potion, did you not?”

She struggled to remember, but her brain felt soft. “I…think the Spiridus…fed it to me.”

The ground jerked beneath her, and her stomach rolled as the world around her started to spin. A sickening heat flashed through her body, and she thought she might retch. She could not tell how long the torture continued, but just when she thought it might go on forever, it stopped abruptly. Now she was blessedly still, and a soft, wet rain was kissing her face. God she was thirsty.

“Kiss me, Severus.”

A shattered moan escaped his throat, and he brought his lips down on hers. She drank the life she knew he was willing into her, even though she could feel it pouring back out of the innumerable wounds that had destroyed her body. Everything she’d ever felt for him; desire, anger, friendship, compassion, blended together into a brilliant mass. She sank into it, and as it washed over her she felt a tenderness beating at its core. As the jackel-men had ripped open her body, this feeling wrenched open her soul, and she was undone.

His heart was in his eyes, and he was close enough that she could feel his breath. She would tell him now, before she lost the chance to do so.

“Severus, I want to tell you…”

He laid his finger over her lips, and she closed them against the weight. “I said you are not allowed to die.”

His hand rested gently on her cheek, and she turned her face towards it. Then there was darkness again, and an awful sensation; she was being sucked dry, pulled apart, suffocated.

Then there was nothing.

*****

Apparating in a state of agitation, particularly while bringing the body of an injured person along for the ride, was a feat that Severus did not desire to repeat any time in the near future. He glanced at Miranda’s inert form, finding that the experience had thrown her back into unconsciousness. As he choked on the malodorous stench of decay that hung in the air, he reflected that it was probably better that way. Whoever was responsible for the brilliant idea of placing the emergency entrance to St. Mungo’s between a line of Muggle dumpsters should be submerged in one and lit on fire.

He flicked his wand violently at the stretcher he’d transfigured from Miranda’s sofa, levitating it off the filthy street with a sickening jerk. Berating himself for his carelessness, he ran his fingers lightly over her battered face. Her breath was still coming in shallow, irregular pants, and the pulse at her throat was thready. A steadier wand swish set the stretcher moving, hovering through the air on invisible strings. He hurried up the delivery ramp with his patient close behind, to a large metal door painted with the warning “Do Not Block.” His slapped the ‘D’ with far more force than necessary, and an unpleasant pulling sensation drew both of them through the entrance into the brightly lit passage beyond. A witch with dark hair and enormous, rectangular glasses was perched at a desk, imperiously directing a queue of witches and wizards in various degrees of distress. He joined it begrudgingly, burning through the remainder of his patience with the speed of an inferno devouring tinder.

“Welcome to St. Mungo’s,” the witch said in a voice like a strangled goat when she finally deigned to notice him. “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Severe injuries sustained in battle,” he replied tersely.

The welcome witch was unimpressed. “Name of the injured party?”

“Miranda Jane Rose.”

“Affiliation?”

“Order of the Phoenix.” He put his hand on Miranda’s wrist, reassuring himself that her heart was still beating as the inane interrogation continued.

“Magical I.D.?”

Would the witch never get on with it? “I don’t have it.”

She gave him a disapproving sniff and thrust a stack of parchment into his hand. “I see. In that case, you’ll have to fill out all of these.”

“I hardly think this is the time for such nonsense. Or is it the hospital’s practice to allow patients bleed to death while they attempt to satisfy the insatiable demands of pointless bureaucracy?”

“Hospital protocol exists for a reason, sir.”

“Apparently so. The more patients who perish in the anteroom, the fewer you actually have to bother with treating.”

“It’s not my fault you forgot the necessary parchments. Residence?”

“A cabin at Upper Diddling, near Brighton.” Two more questions and then he was going to cast a Confundus and take her to triage, protocol be damned.

“Place of birth?”

“Edgewater, Kansas.”

“Kansas?” The welcome witch peered over the rim of her oversized glasses. “Do you mean the Kansas in America?”

“No, I mean the Kansas in Northumberland,” he sneered. “Of course I bloody well mean the Kansas in America.”

“Is she a MACUSA citizen?”

“Yes.”

She clucked her tongue. “Why didn’t you say so at the beginning? Foreign citizens require a completely different set of parchment.”

“What this woman requires is a healer’s attention immediately,” Severus growled, sliding his wand out of his sleeve. “And if you possessed the brains of a flobberworm, she would already be receiving it.”

“One more word like that out of you, sir, and I’ll be calling security.”

“Professor Severus, I wasn’t expecting to see you again today.” Healer A’isha appeared from around the corner, and Severus quickly replaced his wand. “Has something happened? There is blood on your lips.”

His hand automatically went to his mouth and his fingers came away streaked with red. “It’s not mine. It’s…”

“What is going on here?” Healer A’isha had cleared the desk and now had an unobstructed view of Miranda’s mangled body. “Is she one of yours?”

“Yes.”

Healer A’isha began barking orders. “Miss Rhea, I am taking this woman and Professor Severus to triage.”

Miss Rhea put her hands on her hips and snarled another attack. “Healer A’isha, these people are not cleared to enter the hospital. I was just about to pull the files with their security questions. That is, assuming they’re even on the Order’s list at all.”

“I am overriding that protocol.”

“If they turn out to be Death Eaters, I want it noted that it was your rule-breaking that let them in.”

“I’ll put it in my report. This way, Professor Severus.”

“But the parchments,” the welcome witch whined as they maneuvered Miranda around the impediment of her desk.

“Send them up with Healer Augustus. He will be on the hourglass within the next ten minutes. And send up Healer Hippocrates, too.”

“Healer A’isha, you know he hates to work when he’s already flipped his hourglass for the day!”

“He’ll hate it more if he misses this, I promise you.”

Severus could have kissed her. As they moved swiftly through the candlelit corridors, he felt air moving through his lungs for the first time since he’d seen Catalina at the castle gates. Even as they walked, Healer A’isha was making her preliminary examination, her long brown fingers moving lightly over Miranda’s motionless form.

“Tell me what happened,” she said in a tone both firm and gentle.

“She was in Romania on a mission for the Order. There was a battle with an army of creatures. We thought she was lost, but a being called a Spiridus brought her here.”

“A Spiridus? I have only read about them. What potions has she taken?”

“At least three vials of Strengthening Solution.”

“Ah. That accounts for her pulse. She should not have taken so many.”

“I am aware of that. She also took a Stasis Potion.”

“I am not familiar with that potion. Is it one of yours?”

“Yes.” Unlike the welcome witch’s sniping, this volley of questions was somehow soothing to him.

“When Healer Augustus comes, I will need you to list the components of the completed potion to him.”

“I understand.”

“What were the creatures she fought?”

“I don’t know what they are called. I lent her comrade my portkey to come here. She will be able to tell you more about the battle itself.”

At last they entered the winged doors of triage, and Severus brought the stretcher to a halt. Healer A’isha ran her wand slowly over Miranda’s body. As she traced each limb, an image of her patient’s bones and organs appeared in color-coded light. Green for health, yellow for mild injury, purple for severe injury, red for mortal injury…Merlin there was so much red…

“I should have brought her via portkey as well, it would have been faster,” he blurted. “All the members of the Order have been carrying portkeys since Arthur’s attack. But I remembered what you said this morning about moving injured persons and I thought…”

“Peace, Professor,” she said, halting his babbling. “It was better to bring her the slower way and avoid moving her as much as possible. You did the right thing.”

“Thank you,” he choked, his vision blurring for a moment. He shut his eyes, he was not going to cry again, not here, not now.

“Healer A’isha?” A disgustingly chipper nurse in blue robes swept into triage, with an irate Romanian witch close at hand. “I’m not sure, but I think this witch is looking for someone. She came in with the finger-print linked portkey, so I don’t think she’s a Death Eater; but the Rosetta Stone is acting up again; and she doesn’t speak any English; and we’ve just been going round and round for the last twenty minutes.”

“Thank you Nurse. That will be all,” Healer A’isha said, dismissing the woman briskly.

“{Professor Snape, this is the most disorganized hospital I have ever seen. Things are not like this in Romania,}” Catalina complained.

“{I don’t disagree, Doamnă Dragnea,}” Severus replied.

The next half hour was a blur of answering questions, translating between Healer A’isha and Catalina, and doing his best to avoid staring at the lighted map that revealed the extent of Miranda’s internal injuries. He could read the thing well enough to tell that his Stasis Potion had worked better than he’d ever hoped that it would. Unfortunately, he found that he was in no way gratified by that knowledge. Rather, he felt vaguely sick when he realized that his efforts at brewing an experimental potion were the only thing standing between his lover and her grave.

A rotund Healer with spectacles and a white handlebar mustache joined them presently. He barely bothered to introduce himself as Hippocrates Smethwyck before he and Healer A’isha whisked Miranda away for treatment. For a moment, the ground seemed to shift beneath Severus’s feet, as though he had been running for hours and had come to a sudden and unexpected stop.

He had no idea what to do next.

An athletic boy in lime green robes, surely too young to be a Healer stepped up to him, saving him the trouble of taking a decision.

“Hello, Professor Snape,” the boy said with the wide-eyed eagerness of a Hufflepuff. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Augustus Pye.”

Severus eyed the boy—young man—shrewdly. “Of course I remember you. Class of ’89. Decent N.E.W.T. work.”

“Thank you, sir. Coming from you, that’s a compliment. I’m a full Healer now.”

“Congratulations.” A headache was starting to pound behind his eyes, and he was beginning to see stars at the edge of his field of vision.

“Why don’t we go find somewhere quiet to sit,” Augustus suggested. “I’m afraid we’ve got a little more parchment work to fill out. Might as well be comfortable while we do.”

“As you say.”

Answering yet more questions sounded as appealing as taking tea with Dolores Umbridge, but Severus had not an ounce of fight left in him. He allowed the new Healer to lead him and Catalina into a deserted alcove, fitted up with a low-burning candelabra and three enormously comfortable armchairs. Catalina promptly curled herself into a ball and fell asleep, and Severus couldn’t say that he blamed her.

“Okay, Professor. Let’s take it from the top.”

*****

Severus’s throat was raw when he pried his stinging eyes open sometime later. He did not ever remember closing them, but when he had rubbed them with the backs of his chapped hands, and glanced out the arched window that graced the alcove, he saw the moon was high in the sky. When he’d arrived at the hospital on this second errand it had been barely sundown. It must be near midnight now. Catalina still slumbered in the chair next to him, and Healer Pye was nowhere in sight. He made an attempt to extract himself from the armchair, but his joints were so stiff that it was not worth the effort. His stomach rumbled, requesting his attention, but he ignored it, as though his discomfort might somehow aid Miranda in surviving the night.

Light footsteps drew his attention, and he saw Healer A’isha enter the alcove. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her expression was implacably serene. As she sank into the vacant chair, he braced himself for the blow that he knew he could no longer avoid.

“Miss Miranda is alive, Professor Severus.” Healer A’isha’s voice was as cool and calm as her bearing. “Healer Augustus and Nurse Grace are settling her in a room, and then you will be able to see her.”

“Thank Merlin.” It was as close to a prayer as he’d ever said in his adult life.

“Infidel,” Healer A’isha teased with the ghost of a smile. “We have done as much as we can tonight. We must wait until her body has cleared the Strengthening Solution before we attempt anything further.”

“It is dangerous to wait, I take it?”

“Yes, but it is more dangerous to add to the stress on her systems now.”

“I see.” He no longer felt hungry—he felt like his stomach was full of lead.

“It will be as Allah wills, but do not lose hope. She is strong, and we will do our best by her. I promise.”

He snorted. “You say that to everyone.”

“I do. And I mean it every time.”

“Healer A’isha, I am well aware that your promise is worth fifty of any other Healer’s. But don’t lie to me. If she is dying, simply say so.”

“We are all dying, Professor Severus. But if she has any family or friends who would want to see her alive, you may wish to give them the opportunity.”

She did not torture him by completing the thought, and he nodded numbly, grasping the mirror she held out to him with stiff fingers.

“Just return it to a Nurse when you are finished. I must go home now, but you are in good hands, and I will return in the morning.”

“Thank you, Healer A’isha.”

“It is my pleasure, Professor Severus.”

He forced his creaky legs to stand so that he could return her bow. Once he had gained his feet, he paced the alcove, loosening his limbs and avoiding the calls that he knew he had to make. He allowed himself five minutes of procrastination, then he turned the mirror over in his hands.

A wizard with bright eyes and a voice too cheerful for the witching hour appeared in the glass. “Good evening, sir. Where can I direct your call?”

“Mr Aaron Lee, number 76, MACUSA Embassy, London.”

*****

“{I think she looks worse now than when we brought her here,}” Catalina said darkly.

“{I don’t recall asking for your opinion,}” Severus retorted, privately agreeing with the Romanian’s assessment.

The three of them were alone at last in a cramped, windowless, but mercifully private room in Jude the Unfortunate’s Ward for Hopeless Cases. In addition to the poisoning from the extra Strengthening Solution and the physical damage to Miranda’s body, the căpcăuns contained a venom in their claws that was spreading a slow, deadly infection throughout her system. Add to that the Stasis Potion which, while it was working for her, was also, in some ways, working against the Healers, it was anyone’s guess as to whether or not she would ultimately pull through.

Severus was pacing the paltry length of the sterile space, dodging chairs not nearly as comfortable as the ones in the alcove. His attention was divided between staring at the charmed etching on the wall that claimed Miranda was still breathing; and staring at the body on the narrow bed that was so still he hardly believed that the etching was correct. Miranda was laid out as for the undertaker, as pale and motionless as a marble gisant waiting to grace a tomb. She was clean though; someone had washed away the blood and sweat and dirt. The wounds were staunched and dressed where required. Her caretakers had even taken the trouble to comb her hair and plait it into a shining braid that snaked over her shoulder. She looked like the storied princess, patiently awaiting the live-giving kiss.

Unfortunately, he was not that kind of a prince, and this was not a fairy tale.

Around two in the morning, according to the miniature astronomical clock above the door, Rachel Lee joined the somber trio. She came bearing a pair of bento boxes and a thermos of hot tea, and she would not be satisfied until both Catalina and Severus were crammed into the chairs, balancing the offerings on their knees. Catalina dug in immediately, but Severus picked at the miso salmon and the rice, until Rachel cajoled him into trying the cucumber salad. The tanginess of the vinegar married with the depth of the sesame oil coaxed his dormant tastebuds to wakefulness, and he found he had more than enough room to demolish the whole of the dish and wish there were more.

“{I can’t stay long, Maggie is waking up constantly to nurse these days. Growth spurt, I think,} Rachel said in ponderous, but intelligible Romanian.

Severus cocked an eyebrow at the American witch. “{Rachel. You didn’t tell me you spoke Romanian.}”

She winked at him. “{You didn’t ask. I picked it up when I was procrastinating translating all those potion texts. Why don’t you both come back and sleep for a while? We have loads of room in our flat.}”

Catalina’s exhausted eyes brightened at the mention of a bed. “{But only if it will not be any trouble,}” she stipulated wearily.

“{No trouble at all,}” Rachel insisted. “Well, Severus? Won’t you come too?"

“No, I thank you. I want to be here when Aaron arrives with Miranda’s parents.” He did not, in point of fact, want to be there when Miranda’s parents arrived, but he felt that he owed them his presence, even though he doubted they would return the sentiment.

“I understand, and it’s a standing offer. Anytime you want to drop in, day or night, no warning necessary.”

She collected the dishes and left him with a MACUSA eagle that would gain him admittance to the Embassy. Catalina trailed after her, yawning. He shifted in the chair, but every position was equally uncomfortable. Eventually his legs fell asleep, and he sat, staring at Miranda over his steepled fingers, wandering in and out of a doze as the minutes ticked away.

Mercury was halfway across the painted sky on the clock, and Severus’s sleepy brain registered it was nearly dawn, when the door opened again. Aaron, almost unrecognizable without his carefree grin, led a pair of Muggles into the hushed room, and Severus rose stiffly to his feet with all the eagerness of a man facing the gibbet. Miranda’s father was a barrel-chested man, nearly as tall as Aaron, with piercing blue eyes and a neatly trimmed, hoary beard. Her mother was a willowy woman, her dark hair peppered with silver, her grey eyes the mirror of Miranda’s and brimming with tears.

“Conor, Monica, this is Severus Snape, the fella I told you about,” Aaron said, breaking the silence. “Severus, Conor and Monica Rose.”

Now that he was facing Miranda’s parents, pinned by Conor’s suspicious glare and Monica’s gaunt sorrow, Severus wished he had taken Rachel up on her offer of respite. What a damned, sentimental idiot he was to think he should be here at a time like this. What was he even supposed to say to these Muggles? So nice to meet you Mr Rose, I’m the one who’s been fornicating with your daughter for the last year or so. Mrs Rose, how enchanting to finally make your acquaintance. I am a great admirer of your embroidery work, especially the piece gracing the wall of your daughter’s bedroom, with which I am intimately familiar.

In the end, when Mr Rose crushed his hand in an iron grip, he simply muttered, “Good morning Mr Rose. I am sorry we did not meet under better circumstances.”

Conor pumped his hand once and released him. “So am I, son. So am I.”

Severus bristled at the epithet ‘son,' but bit his tongue. Conor had obviously not meant it as a compliment, and in any case, he had already moved past Severus and drawn up a chair to sit at his daughter’s shoulder.

Monica held out her hand to him in a polished, but distracted greeting.

“Professor Snape, we’re glad to meet you. From what Aaron was telling us, we have you to thank that Miranda is still among the living,” she said warmly, but her eyes kept darting between his face and her daughter’s body.

Her gratitude made him feel worse than Conor’s spite ever could have accomplished. “I’ve done nothing to deserve your thanks, madam.”

She neither confirmed nor denied his statement, and he let go of her hand in order to place a chair for her by Miranda’s side. She slipped into it, and brushed a stray lock back from her daughter’s bruised face. Aaron took the final chair, and Severus backed away as far as the room would allow, feeling as unwelcome as Actaeon in Diana’s wood. He wouldn’t put it past Conor to turn and rend him if the opportunity presented itself.

“I don’t know, Conor,” Monica said in a strained voice after she’d examined the state of her child. “She looks better than she did after that time with the Jersey Devils. Remember? It took the Healers a week to set her straight and we still had to get Father Donnelly to exorcise her.”

Conor glanced up at his wife, and a boyish smile broke across his face, making him appear years younger. “You might be right, Butterfly. Do you remember that, Aaron?”

Aaron let out a low whistle. “Sure do, Conor. The Tin-Hat Brigade was busy for a month, writing copy for the tabloids, trying to convince the No-Majs that the whole shebang was a result of fumes from a putrid cranberry bog.” He gave a jaw-splitting yawn. “She’ll pull through. She’s too tough to die.”

“Don’t I know it. Takes after her Ma.”

“You’ve got the eagle I gave you?”

“Yessir.”

“Good. The welcome witch’ll be able to call an escort for you when you’re ready for a break. Rachel’ll be around later this morning, and I’ll be back after work.”

“Thank you Aaron, for everything,” Monica said.

“No trouble at all. I’ll see you soon.”

The room seemed smaller after Aaron had taken his leave, rather than more spacious. Severus was painfully aware of the awkwardness of the situation and, much as he was loathe to leave Miranda’s side, he was becoming more certain by the second that his presence was not at all desired by her progenitors. With a sick heart, he slunk towards the door, Bellerophon repulsed for having dared to sully paradise.

He was in the hallway when Monica spoke his name; but he pulled the door shut after him, pretending not to hear.

He would rather wander the world blind and broken by his own decision than give the gods the pleasure of casting him out.

*****

On Tuesday the Healers decided to risk administering the first round of antidotes to the struggling patient. That night, Miranda was feverish, tossing and muttering nonsense; still unaware of her surroundings. In the small hours of the morning, she finally settled into a quieter sleep; although her face was still flushed and her breathing rapid and shallow. Monica dozed, feet tucked up on her chair and her chin resting on her knees; Conor sat, busily whittling with a large pocket knife, letting the scraps of wood fall heedlessly to the floor; and Severus paced, determined to wear a track in the tile beneath his feet. He had not bothered to enquire if the Roses desired his presence at their daughter’s sickbed, and he had come into the room, both this evening and the one previous, prepared to insist on his entitlement to be there. He had a list of reasons, carefully curated and impeccably logical; not one of them stooping to the baseness of feeble-minded emotion. Neither of his antagonists condescended to question him, and while Monica was unwaveringly polite, Conor's adroit blend of silence and pointed observation communicated his opinion of his daughter’s paramour with perfect clarity.

“Miranda never mentioned you,” Conor said matter-of-factly without looking up from his creation.

Although he had thought his armor impervious to slights, Severus was taken aback by how much that revelation stung him.

“That does not surprise me,” he replied evenly.

“Aaron mentioned you’re wrapped up in some dodgy shit over here.”

“That is not untrue.”

“Said you’re head-over-heels stupid for my girl, but that nobody’s supposed to know.”

Severus was going to hex that American blabbermouth at the first available opportunity. “Aaron talks too damned much.”

“He does, don’t he?”

Conor let that comment hang in the air for a while and continued his work; slowly transforming the smooth wood into a trim little sparrow. Severus resumed his pacing, dividing his attention between crafting an appropriately acrid diatribe with which to revenge himself on Aaron Lee, and berating himself for the mistake of giving the man that much information in the first place.

At last Conor spoke again, and his voice was soft, unmarred by the edge of hostility that had been present in it up to now.

“You know, I’ve always been proud of Miranda. Couldn’t ask for a tougher, smarter girl. And sweet too. Sweeter than she ought to be. But damn if she don’t scare the shit out of me something regular. I suppose every father comes to the understanding that he can’t protect his children, ‘specially once they’re grown. But most fathers don’t have to watch their girls get cut to pieces by things that ain’t supposed to exist except in nightmares or Hell. Humbles a man.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Eh, a man has to be humbled now and then. It ain’t good to have too much pride, makes your head soft.” He looked up from his whittling finally, and his eyes had the twinkle in them that Severus had only witnessed when Conor was talking to those in his favor. “What I’m saying is, I’m glad that she’s got you at her back. Even if you are stuffed shirt Englishman.”

It was the most flattering insult Severus had ever received, and he was embarrassed at how much it soothed his troubled heart. “I take it you expect me to thank you for that.”

“Nah. I expect you to sit down and play a round of Rummy with me. That pacing’s driving me nuts.”

*****

By the end of the week, the Healers were cautiously hopeful that Miranda would recover. The balancing act continued between the spells and potions she required, and the amount of stress her damaged body could stand; but the scales seemed to have tipped decidedly in her favor. Severus found that he was firmly ensconced in the strange little coterie of her family and friends; and—stranger still—he found that he was pleased to have been accepted into it. His days had settled into a grueling, but satisfactory, routine which allowed him to spend most of his unscheduled time in Miranda’s hospital room. He did yield to Monica’s insistence that they take a walk in the early evenings, and he did consent to eat whatever food Rachel foisted on him. But he drew the line at actually retiring to the Lees’ flat to sleep, preferring to catch what rest he could at Miranda’s bedside, or in his office between classes.

On Saturday evening, the entire party conspired to drag him away to the Embassy for dinner. Rachel had prepared a feast of sushi, sukiyaki, pickles, and sliced mango. Intoxicated by the mutual good-will, and one glass too many of sake, he had relented to Rachel’s gentle commands that he lie down after dinner for a catnap. When he opened his eyes several hours later and stumbled into the darkened kitchen, he cursed to himself that he’d let so much time slip through his fingers. With clumsy hands he lit the lamps and put the kettle on for tea, flinching at every clang and clatter that he made. He did manage to wrestle both the tea leaves and the water into the pot without breaking anything or burning himself by the time Catalina slipped into the flat.

“{Good evening, Severus,}” she said, looking amused by his state. “{It is good that you finally slept. We were becoming worried for your sanity.}”

“{A concern I share every day, considering the company I keep,}” he quipped. But the nap had done him good—though he’d never admit to it. “{How is she?}”

“{The same. The Healers say it is only a matter of time before she wakes up, and that then they will have a better idea of how long it will take for her to recover.}”

He poured them both a cup of tea and they gathered companionably at the table to partake of it. “{Will you be returning home soon?}” he asked.

“{Yes. I want to stay until she wakes if I can. But I cannot put off going home for much longer. Gabi is waiting for me.}” Her brow furrowed at the mention of her brother, and she hastily turned the subject. “{Before I go, I would like to meet your son, if opportunity permits.}”

Severus choked on the tea he was attempting to drink. “{Pardon me? I do not have a son.}”

“{I…you don’t?}” Catalina eyed him dubiously. “{Are you certain of that?}”

The memory of the appalling conversation he’d had with Miranda in this very flat sprang to mind and he shook his hair forward to ensure that his ears were concealed. “{Quite.}”

“{Oh. Well. Never mind then.}” She took a prim sip. “{Is English weather always so dismal this time of year?}”

“{Catalina,}” he said in as stern a tone as he could manage in another language. “{Why were you under the impression that I had a son?}”

Her cheeks colored and she pursed her lips. “{I was making assumptions where I shouldn’t have. I knew that Miranda had a son and I thought that her child would naturally be yours as well. Pardon me for the mistake and for prying.}”

Had the lights in this room always been so blinding? And why had he suddenly forgotten how to breathe? Quick, fool, pull yourself together and get whatever information you can out of her.

“{How do you know about Miranda’s son? It’s not something she talks about with most people.}” Like her lover, for instance.

Catalina gestured like an angry bird. “{We talked about it on the mountaintop when we were waiting for the Sânziene. I already knew she was a mother because Doamna Lupul made it a stipulation that she be one to participate in the competition. I was exempt from that requirement because my brother was one of the lost children, but Doamna Lupul said that a mother would have true sympathy for the families who had lost their sons and daughters, and so could be trusted with competing, even though she was a foreigner.}”

“{Naturally.}” It took every ounce of restraint to hold his tongue in the hopes that she would continue and reveal whatever else she knew.

The silence discomposed her and he was rewarded. “{She said his name is Isaac and he’s eleven this summer. I assume he is in America?}”

“{Where else would he be?}” Merlin, if he were that old he must be David Clearwater’s progeny. He would be at Ilvermorny by now. How could she never have mentioned him?

Catalina hastily finished her cup and excused herself to bed, but Severus hardly noticed her going. He let his tea go cold and left it sitting on the table as he wandered out into the night towards the hospital. But when he reached Purge and Dowse, Ltd, he kept walking, venting his frustration on an empty beer can that he hexed up the deserted street as he fumed.

A son. David Clearwater’s son. And she’d never told him—never even hinted—insisted she couldn’t have children at all. But then, he’d never thought to ask the devious woman if she already had children, had he? None of it made any sense to him. No, that wasn’t true. Some of it did make sense; and as the threads wove together, he did not like the picture they made in the least. But he was a logical man; a sensible man; and so he did what any man of his ilk would do, and made a list.

Item the first; Miranda had a life that he knew nothing about; moreover, it was a life with which she wanted him to have nothing to do.

Item the second; Miranda was pleased enough with his services as a companion and a lover that she had spoken favorably of her return to Britain following her Romanian misadventure. As far as he knew, she had no immediate plans to return to America.

Item the third; Miranda was a capricious witch, and he would not be at all surprised if one day she left him with no warning whatsoever.

Item the fourth; she had beguiled him to the point that, if he were not already in love with Lily Evans, he would think that he harbored the traitorous emotion for her instead.

Item the fifth; he had even started to hope that one day—in some far off nebulous time that would surely never come to pass because he would be dead before it could—they would make a home together with a stone cottage and a potions room and a dueling hall and a garden in the back (not that he’d imagined it in any sort of depth, thank you very much).

Item the sixth; She obviously was making no such plans. How could she wish to make a future with someone when she could not even be bothered to tell him such pertinent information as the fact that she had a bloody child back home that called her Mama?

Item the seventh; if he were wise, he would end this whole incautious affair immediately. It was an irresponsible whim and indulging it—especially since she obviously did not suffer the same doltish regard for him—was moronic at best.

Item the eighth; Hecate’s Withered Tit, he did love her. Thank Merlin he’d never been stupid enough to say so.

Item the ninth; he was a damned idiot.

He slashed the can with a savage hex and it skittered through a broken grate into the sewer. His breath came in pants and he raked his fingers through his hair, as though he might plough some sense into his brain. The moon was his only witness; and he thought that he could see the cold goddess’s face; heartlessly taunting him from her chariot on high.

*****

Something was resting on Miranda’s chest. Something warm and comfortable. She wanted to wrap her arms around it and keep it there, but she couldn’t seem to move them. She also wanted to scratch her nose; the itch there was driving her crazy. But there was no sense in fretting about things she couldn’t manage, so she just floated along in this dreamy limbo; certain that at some point she would be directed what to do next. She knew she was dead. And since she wasn’t in torment, she assumed that she’d avoided Hell. Maybe this was Purgatory, and soon she’d be handed her load to carry up the mountain where she would sing the praises of God with her fellows on the climb to Heaven.

Gradually a chill seeped into her bones, and the pressure on her chest became crushingly burdensome. She struggled to breathe against it, and wondered why she bothered. If she was dead, what use was oxygen? But struggle she did, and with every pant, another part of her body joined the chorus of pain. Her head hurt. Her legs hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her chest hurt. Good Lord, even her fingernails and her hair hurt.

Maybe she was in Hell after all.

There was a scraping noise in the world outside her body, and for a sick moment she thought it was a demon preparing a blade to vivisect her like she’d seen in a picture once as a child. She thought she’d been shriven before she’d made that final quest, but maybe it hadn’t taken.

Deciding it was better to see the evil threatening her than imagine what might be there, she bravely pried her eyes open. At first everything was a confused blur of light and shadows, but as she ponderously blinked, her vision cleared.

“You look like hell, Pixie,” said a voice that was almost as comfortable as the weight she’d left behind.

She peeled open her dry, cracking lips and mustered a smile at the sight of her dear Papa. “You should see the other guy.”

“I’ll bet you handed those mongrels their asses.” He leaned down to kiss her, and his whiskers tickled her cheek. “It’s good to see you, girl.”

“Where’s Mama?”

“I’m here, darling.” Her mother came into view next, kissing her with cool, soothing lips. “You gave us a scare.”

She tried to lift her arms to embrace her parents, but they were too heavy. “Why can’t I move?”

“You’ve been mostly dead for a week now. The Healers are pretty sure you’ll be right as rain eventually, but it’s going to take time,” Conor reassured her.

She should have been happy. Hell—she’d cheated Death—she should have been ecstatic. But instead she felt like an abandoned shell; like a stranded traveler who’d missed the last train; like the lame boy who had hobbled along after the pied piper only to be shut out of paradise.

“Mira, are you alright?” Monica’s discerning eyes were searching her face with concern. It would frighten them to know that their daughter was lying there wishing she were dead. They mustn’t know. She wouldn’t let them know.

“I mean, all things considered, I’m peachy.” She tried to smile for them and doubted she managed. “How long have I been here?”

“Severus brought you here a week ago tomorrow,” Conor said with an ease that startled her.

“Severus? When did you meet him? And when did you get to be on a first name basis with him? He’s usually a stick in the mud.”

Her parents exchanged a knowing look over her head, the kind that usually made her want to roll her eyes in irritation. Unfortunately, her eyes hurt too much to roll at the moment.

“What can I say, Pixie, we bonded over our mutual terror that you were going to kick it.” Conor laughed. “I’m not denying that he’s a stuffed shirt, but the man’s crazy for you, that’s for sure.”

Miranda no longer felt the pressure on her chest—she felt like she was in free-fall. She hadn’t said anything stupid had she? She did remember being emotional when Severus had found her dying in her cabin, but she hadn’t thought she’d actually said anything about it. Hadn’t he stopped her before she’d passed the point of no return? God she hoped so.

“I don’t know about that,” she protested weakly, but the door opened, and her admirer swept into the room, commanding everyone’s attention.

He looked angry, but that was usual. Her parents greeted him like an old friend, which was strange to witness, but not unusual for them. Her parents had a way of befriending even the most standoffish persons. In a whirl of hand-shaking and congratulations, her parents tactfully excused themselves to the tea room, and before she could speak a word to defend herself, she was alone with him.

When he turned to her, he was a man at war with himself, and she could see the battle playing out in his eyes. The ever-present pique yielded to something softer, and while she told herself it was melancholy or fatigue that effected the change; she suspected it was something else that she did not wish to see.

“It is as I said,” he observed, “More lives than a cat.”

“I’m durable. It’s one of my more useful qualities.”

He smirked at her, burying his heart beneath his sardonic mask. But his lips trembled on hers when he kissed her, and she could taste the salt of his tears. She tilted her head back, taking what he offered, and refusing to think about the implications.

He did not linger there, but seated himself next to her bed and retrieved a book from the folds of his robe.

“As I recall, the only sure way to keep you in bed when you are convalescing is to read to you constantly.”

Her relief at the realization that she would not have to make conversation was palpable. She was far too exhausted to know what to say.

“You remember right. Although I don’t think I could move now even if the room were on fire.”

That softness flickered across his face again, and he reached out to grasp her hand with his.

“Soon, my Barbarian. Soon.”

*****

He was a genius, if he did say so himself.

When he’d first volunteered to superintend Miranda’s recovery, he hadn’t been certain he could manage the necessary alterations to his quarters that the situation required, but it had all come off without a hitch. The Extension Charm had worked perfectly, enlarging the interior of his rooms without requiring him to go about the drudgery of moving any of his books. There was space enough for Miranda’s turntable, for her pictures, for her books and sundries. He’d selected the best of her nieces’ and nephews’ drawings to arrange on the wall by her side of the bed, and he’d widened his armoire for her clothing. The pièces de résistance were the windows. Each room now sported windows running from floor to ceiling; charmed so magnificently that one could open them wide to let in a magical breeze and smell the air outside. It had taken a fair amount of trouble but, as he expected her sojourn in his rooms to be a lengthy one, he wanted her to be comfortable.

He set himself to the pleasant task of arranging her books on an empty bookcase, sorting them by subject and author as he did. If he were honest, he would admit that he harbored the foolish desire for her stay to be indefinite. But he was practical enough to realize that she would not wish for it to be so. Two weeks at St. Mungo’s and she was already chaffing; already longing to fly. He would keep her here for as long as he could, but in the end, he knew that she would leave him behind.

When he had been a child, he had learned to live on scraps. Scraps of food. Scraps of attention. Scraps of love. He had hoarded each paltry piece and squeezed as much good out of it as his tiny hands could muster, like a man squeezing blood from the proverbial stone. It hadn’t been enough, but he hadn’t had a choice. As a man, he had yet to come to a place where he truly had a choice. For fettered as he was by his vows to Lily, Albus, and the Dark Lord, how could he possibly be free?

Miranda was a better woman than he deserved, and even her trifling regard was preferable to being alone. He knew that, when she left, it would be worse than if he had never met her at all. But he also knew that, although the scraps of affection she let carelessly fall from her fingers would not satiate him, he would accept those scraps like priceless pearls and store them up against the black day when she finally left him for good.

It wasn’t what he wanted, but it would have to do.

*****

By the beginning of November, her parents and Catalina had returned to their respective homes, and Miranda had been released to Severus’s care. She had a daily routine of disgusting potions to take, and painful exercises, both physical and magical to perform; as well as a diet to follow that was designed with more strength-building than palate-pleasing in mind. Severus was a cruel task-master, and she was beginning to see the side of him that his students whispered about behind his back. But he also touched her with a tenderness that broke her heart, and fretted around her like a worried hen caring for its brood.

One Friday evening they sat in front of the fire while the rain pattered on the enchanted windows, echoing the mournful storm outside. He was at his desk, marking a pile of essays and muttering to himself about the idiocy of his students. She was curled up on the sofa, whittling away at a chessman for her nephew Brendan. Although she was going out of her mind from her confinement, she was trying to embrace the sedentary time as an opportunity to renew her acquaintance with the almost-forgotten hobby. If she were diligent, she might be able to make a present for each of her nieces and nephews by Christmas.

Severus threw down his quill and rubbed his temples. “Enough. If I read one more word of this rubbish tonight I shall go mad.”

“Encouraging words from their teacher.”

“It is not my fault that these dunderheads have had a string of incompetent teachers before me. Not only do I have the students’ natural stupidity to contend with, but I must repair all of the mistakes made by their previous so-called instructors as well.”

“I have every confidence that you will succeed, or die trying. You’re as tenacious as a pit bull when you get your teeth into something.”

“Your words of praise never fail to overwhelm me.”

He retrieved a stack of books from his shelf and deposited them in her lap.

“What’s this?” she asked, curiously examining the covers.

“Miss Lovegood gave them to me after class today. She said she used to read them when she was ill and she thought you would enjoy them.”

She opened the top book and smiled to see the opening of the first story. “ ‘To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name.’ Did you ever read these?”

“I?” he said, feigning indignation. “I, muddle my brain with such common twaddle? Surely you jest.”

“Well if you haven’t, you should. A little light reading is good for the soul. How did she know I was down here anyway?”

He sat down on the sofa and took her feet in his lap, rubbing his fingers over them in practiced circles until she sighed and sank back on the pillows; content.

“Ah, that. She claims that the thestrals told her.”

“The thestrals? Does she talk to them often?”

“Only once a week when they have tea.”

“Tea?” Miranda laughed merrily at the idea. “I can see her doing that. Have you been to this exclusive tea?”

He cleared his throat and she could see the pink tinging his ears. “Certainly not.”

“Don’t you lie to me, you have!”

“I will not dignify that with an answer.”

“Do you think she’d let me come along?”

“Of course she would, she delights in the ridiculous. And I’ll have you know…”

His words ended in a hiss and he dropped her foot like he’d been burned. His playful mood turned instantly serious, and he got up without a word to fetch his cloak and mask. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. She hated to see him this way. Hated to watch him go into the lion’s den alone. But she tried to keep her anxiety to herself. He needed all his wits about him, not the burden of a silly woman worrying for him at home.

“Tell the Dark Lord I said hello.”

“I think that I shall not say that, if it is all the same to you.”

He kissed her heartfully and she gave him a careless smile. Then he traced her cheek with his finger and left without saying goodbye. Neither of them ever said goodbye. It was a good luck charm; as though by refusing to acknowledge the parting they could ensure the return of the one who had gone.

She stretched like a cat and braced herself on the back of the sofa to complete the arduous task of getting up. Although the silence in these rooms never bothered her during the day, at night it pressed in on her with bony fingers; like a boogie man that only crept out from under the bed when the parents were asleep. Her turntable was nestled between two of the bookshelves, and her records were lined up neatly close at hand. She pulled one out and set it spinning, letting the rich, mellow voice cover her fears.

At the dark end of the street, That’s where we always meet…

The renovations to Severus’s quarters were beautiful. They must have taken him days to complete. He’d brought all of her favorite things to keep her company while she healed. He showed her every day by his actions how much he cared for her. And though he still often adopted the role of the cold, callous Englishman, he was letting her glimpse the man underneath the facade with such casualness that she wondered if he was even aware that he was doing it.

She loved him, she couldn’t lie to herself about that. But she was never, ever going to tell him. There was simply too much standing in the way.

A pile of wood scraps from her whittling had accumulated on the floor by the sofa, glinting in the light of the fire. She knelt down to scoop them up, even though bending that far made her body scream in protest. She welcomed the pain, as though she could expiate her failures with it. When she had pushed herself up to her feet again, she swayed unsteadily, then limped across the stones to the fireplace, and cast the scraps into the flames.

They sparked, and danced, and crumbled to ash, like the dross of obliterated dreams.

*****

End Notes:

The Rosetta Stone is a charmed translation aid that works about as well as google translate.

Gisant: a recumbent effigy for a tomb, representing the deceased.

Jersey Devils are something like wyverns.

Miranda is quoting from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s story, A Scandal in Bohemia.

The song she is listening to is At the Dark End of the Street by James Carr.

This story is the first of a trilogy. I’ll post chapter 1 of book two, libera nos a malo, by the end of the week.

As always—thank you for reading!

*****

Moonlight Masterpost+

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